Dear Girls

Love, love, love Ali Wong. She's hilarious and irreverent and, despite what she tells you in the forward of this book, really smart. This book is delicious and hilarious and, more than once, I had to stop reading in bed because I was laughing so hard and loud that the bed was shaking and I was waking up my sleeping husband.

This book made me full-on Snoopy laugh. (In case that doesn't mean anything to you, see below. Also, you're very young.)

Most people who know Ali Wong either know her from the Netflix movie Always Be My Maybe (which, for some reason, my 11-year old son has watched 10+ times), or they know her from her comedy specials, in which she is very funny - and very pregnant. This book is an extension of those comedy specials in a couple of ways: first, because she continues with that irreverent brand of honest humor; but also because the book is a series of lessons she's writing for those girls she was carrying in those comedy specials.

The way she writes - the things she writes about - most of us would probably never want to read about our own mothers. She's honest about her body and sex and the mistakes she made en route to where she is now. She writes about traveling the world and what she learned about herself through other cultures. She writes a lot about family - and a lot about sex. It can be raunchy, but there's something about her delivery that somehow also makes it sweet.

Speaking of sweet... After laughing hysterically (Snoopy-style) for much of this book, I ended the book in tears. While 99 percent of it is Ali writing to her daughters, it ends with her husband adding a chapter of his own. He talks about how they met, what attracted him to her and how he gave up a really successful career to support hers. It's sweet and tender and the perfect ending to a really fantastic book.

Verity

I'll tell you a little story. Many years ago, I went to see the movie The Sixth Sense. It had been out for a few weeks and kept hearing over and over, "you're not going to BELIEVE the ending."

I took that as a challenge.

About 10 minutes into the movie, I whispered to my then-boyfriend (now-husband), "I think he's dead."

Yep.

I called it.

For the rest of the movie, I watched it through that lens. So, when the BIG REVEAL happened... I was like, "duh."

Why am I telling you this? Because that's pretty close to what happened to me with this book.

I can't remember where I read it, but I saw a review that said I absolutely needed to read this book. I had never heard of the author, but heard from people who were big fans of her writing. I worried it might be a reductive thriller, but I figured I might as well give it a shot.

The writing immediately was easy to read. Conversational, direct, etc. The plot itself is fascinating, too. A little-known author is asked to finish a series written by a prolific author named Verity. She's been in an accident, but few details have been released. A huge sum of money convinces her to give it a shot and she essentially moves into the family's home while she catches up on the previous books and prepares to write.

What she finds is an autobiography that reveals shocking, horrifying details no mother would ever want public. The details are about her own life and also the tragic deaths of the family's twin girls. She also finds Verity in a catatonic state.

Throughout the book, there is an extreme emphasis on the narrator's growing attraction to Verity's husband. In all aspects, he's portrayed as the perfect husband and father and Verity is depicted as the "crazy one." You can see where this is going... basically.

While there were times I found myself enthralled with this book, overall, it left me unsatisfied. The "twist" at the end insists upon itself. It goes on longer than necessary and leaves too many plot threads hanging.

I see why people would like it as an escapist novel. But, as a "good read"? Nah, not for me.

Catch and Kill

Let me get this out of the way right now: I'm in AWE of Ronan Farrow and his reporting. The lengths he went to, the risks he took, the sources he developed and the courage to battle a network... Truly inspiring, especially as a journalist.

I love his podcast, too, of the same name. Great interviews, really interesting insight.

That said, I didn't love this book.

I loved the idea of it and the intrigue, but at times, it just felt tedious.

Let me explain.

Farrow's reporting, if you didn't know, helped expose the Harvey Weinstein case. It brought into the light a Hollywood secret that had been buried for years. Women were terrified to speak out against one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. And when you hear their stories - because Farrow helped bring them to light - it's even more scary, the power and control he had over not only these women, but the message as well. This man went to incredible lengths to protect his image, even hiring spies and making threats to the heads of networks.

Almost as disturbing was what happened to that reporting when Farrow brought it to his bosses at NBC. Despite carefully vetted sourcing and documentation AND women willing to go on the record, NBC tried to kill the story. Farrow simply didn't give up, eventually walking the story over to the New Yorker, which fact-checked and published.

The book is incredibly thorough, like Farrow's reporting. At times, I thought it was too thorough and even had trouble tracking who had done what to whom. I was about to give up and Farrow turned to reporting on Matt Lauer. That, again, was a fascinating look at the culture created in so many large corporations and how so many secrets are left untold because it's too inconvenient. Maybe #MeToo has changed that somewhat, but not nearly enough.

If you're interested in Farrow's reporting on this, I suggest you try the podcast. It can stand alone and it's FASCINATING to hear from the players. As for the book - I'm glad I read it, but it wasn't my favorite.

The Great Believers

Oh, this book.

THIS BOOK.

I think I'll look back at the end of the year and feel even more strongly about The Great Believers than I do right now. And, I feel pretty dang strongly about it now.

It's about hope and death and love and family and war and friendship and the AIDS crisis of the 1980s. It's about Chicago's Boystown and 1920's Paris and the love that stays with you, long after the person is gone.

It's about the burden of memory. And, the gift of memory, too.

Yale is a gay man in Chicago in the mid-1980s. The gay community there was like a battlefield, with the "new" disease AIDS picking off men, one by one. Yale watches slowly as men around him become infected and die, always suspecting the same disease might come for him.

Fiona's brother Nico is one of Yale's closest friends. Nico dies early on and Fiona is the one who takes care of them all and really tries to hold the whole community together. 

Chapters alternate between the 1980s and 2015. In the future timeline, Fiona is in Paris trying to track down her daughter, who once joined a cult and has cut off ties with her parents. What Fiona finds in Paris is far beyond what she was looking for. She's also confronted with the memories of those times in the 80's and all the men she lost.

In the middle of all of this, there's the story of an old woman dedicated to paying tribute to a man she love and lost 70 years before. An artist, who because of war, never got his due. Her story ties so closely together with Fiona and Yale. The burden of how we honor those we've left behind.

This book is long and, at first, felt a little slow. But, about a quarter of the way in, I was enveloped by the characters and the story. By the time I reached the final chapters this morning, I simply could not stop reading it. In fact, I sacrificed a good hair day because I read as a curled my hair. When I reached the last two pages, I stopped what I was doing and went to my bed to finish it. I needed to be wrapped up when I saw how it all ended. 

Yeah, that good.

That quote above comes late in the novel, as a character Fiona hadn't seen in decades finally reunites with her. He relates what they've been through to Horatio in Hamlet - the only character who lives to tell their stories. The burden of memory. I had never heard it that way. It's devastatingly beautiful.

I read in the afterword that the author wanted to write this book because not enough has been written about AIDS in Chicago. It's the third largest city, so many men died. Someone needed to tell their story. I'm so glad it was done in such a beautiful way.

Despite the apparent death sentence, the men in this book are somehow still hopeful. They care for each other as, one by one, they fall away. The parallel to the old woman telling stories of losing men in World War I was subtle and heartbreaking. 

There's so much here. So much that will stay with me. 

As I write this, I've just found out that Amy Poehler has optioned this book for a 

TV project. I can imagine it being told beautifully, richly - and by one of my favorite people! But, I do believe (no pun intended) that it should be read first. 

The Witches Are Coming

I'll start by saying I'm a fan of Lindy West. She's unapologetic in her feminism and her ownership of self, despite the fact she's been a lightning rod for criticism because of those things. I've read her other writing and I'm a fan. But, this book just didn't quite do it for me.

West's writing addresses the sexism that still permeates across America. This book specifically talks about that sexism in Trump's America. The first essay is the best one, in which she describes how the term "witch hunt" is now thrown around casually, including by the president, and (ironically?) ignores the origins of that term and the sexism that drove and defined the actual witch hunt that took place in American history. I love when she says "the witches are coming" as a way to show women are not backing down anymore. I love that message - political or not - of equality and feminism.

I think my problem here was that every essay led to that same conclusion. That's not unexpected, really, but it just ended up feeling repetitive. Because of that, I found myself liking the book a little less with every essay I read. Not that I didn't want her to come to the same conclusion - it's the basic theme of her writing. But, I felt like I wanted something else from it; I wanted some different avenue, maybe, even if the conclusion was ultimately the same.

The bigger issue is probably that I'm not a huge fan of books of essays unless other voices are brought in. The exception, probably, is Trick Mirror, which I read earlier this month and loved.

There's some good stuff here, don't get me wrong. About the depiction of abortion in pop culture, about the mystery of Adam Sandler, etc. But, maybe I'm better off with an essay at a time instead of a book full all at once.

Ghost Wall

Oh man, this book had promise.

How much promise? A blurb on the back said it would grab me by the guts and not let go!

Sometimes, a little gut grabbing is just what you need!

Well, it was a hell of a start, but left my guts wanting more.

It's a compact novella with a hell of a plot. A family takes a two-week "vacation" to far northern England to join an Anthropology class adventure. The dad, who you'll hate instantly, is obsessed with life in the Iron Age. The class is designed to replicate that exact experience, from the tunics to the foraging to the creepy "ghost wall" made out of human heads (back then) or animal heads (in their interpretation) as a way to scare off Roman invaders.

The book is told through Silvie's eyes, the teenage girl forced to live here in her dad's bizarre fantasy land. This is a dad who beats her - both before they come on the trip and during - but, her perspective remains clear and her voice is strong throughout.

Dad, being the real peach that he is, takes the whole thing too far and the next thing you know they're really trying to be authentic by inching towards human sacrifice.

That's where your guts get grabbed.

Yet, as bizarre and fascinating and unique as this story is, the book itself feels somehow formulaic. You can't believe where it's going, yet it's somehow predictable at the same time.

My co-worker read it, too, and she's right: it takes a leap without a middle and leaves you wondering if it would have been better as a 230-page book instead of a 130-page novella.

I didn't hate it. As I said, the characters' voices were interesting and the writing was fantastic. The plot itself is unique. But, it needed more/different/better. I leave with my guts intact.

Trick Mirror

I'm coming in hot to 2020 with a book that I bought myself for Christmas.

Somehow, Jia Tolentino's book of essays slipped on past me through most of 2019, but the cover screamed at me from the shelves at Auntie's Bookstore and I bought it just in time for a plane ride (the best reading setting in the world, if you ask me. Maybe 'above' the world is a better description. Either way. Let's not dwell on the prepositions.)

I've read Tolentino's writing in the past and I love both her voice and her perspective. In a world where everyone has a "take", Tolentino's perspectives are more thoughtful than they are knee-jerk and some of her essays in this collection resonate even more a week after I've read them.

She opens big with thoughts on the internet and the internet culture in which we are all now immersed. It's the reality now that social media has given us all some kind of voice; with that has come the need for all of us (most of us?) to constantly perform. She points out, though, that this is nothing new, pointing to decades-old research about how we're all performing all the time - the internet simply magnifies it.

My favorite thoughts on that topic, though, are about this "fake woke" culture so many of us buy into. It's so easy to express a view on feminism/homelessness/poverty/civil right, etc. without having to do the work to change those social ills. "The internet was dramatically increasing our ability to know about things while our ability to change things stayed the same," she writes. The act of showing solidarity on social media is far more desirable than actually doing anything about the issues.

She writes about the meteoric rise of athleisure, at once complimenting and condemning it. She subtly mocks the "Spiritual Gangster" tank top trends and eloquently explains the draw of often-overpriced leggings. "It feels comforting to wear high-quality spandex," she says. "I imagine it's what a dog feels like in a Thundershirt."

There are thoughts on marriage and how the institution ultimately harms women more than men; she writes about the scams that define her generation, from Frye Festival to student debt to the housing market crash; she compares ecstasy to her megachurch Houston upbringing; and she devotes an entire chapter to the pure heroism of young female characters in literature.

I didn't love every essay, but I loved most and at least liked the rest. She's worth a follow on Twitter, a read of this book and at least a few thoughts next time to log onto Facebook and see your Namaste in Bed-clad friending posting about social issues.

A great start towards my goal of 60 (!) books in 2020. Away we go!