Broken for You, by Stephanie Kallos (2004)
I am reluctant to read books selected by famous book clubs, aren't you? I don't like getting sucked into that massive marketing tool, and I'll bet you don't, either. But you and I are just going to have to get over it, because this book is terrific. If possible, get a copy that has only a book club sticker (as opposed to a cover printed with the hype right on it), and peel the sticker off. In fact, just remove the whole book jacket so no one thinks you're one of those people who only reads what the television tells you to. There, that's better.
I would need a word stronger than "reluctant" to describe my attitude toward fiction books written by actresses. However, I notice that Stephanie Kallos is not on IMDb, so we're not talking Meg Tilly here, and it shows in the quality of the writing, which is good. (See what I did there? Subtle!)
I recommend skipping the prologue, which is so, so lame: silly, pompous, and overblown. Go right to the good stuff, which starts in chapter one and continues to the end of the book.
The plot seems like it would be depressing: an old woman with a brain tumor takes in as a boarder a young woman who is obsessively seeking the man who dumped her, and the two of them live in an enormous house filled with antiques. The more we learn, the more you'd think you'd be brought down: someone's parents deserted her, someone's parents were bad in various ways, someone can't get over something, someone can't stop crying. And yet, no! It is uplifting! Happy! As I read, I often had that feeling of triumph that in a movie would be accompanied by swelling music. Other times I was touched, but warmly so. Really, I must insist that you try this book!
Reading, Writing, and Leaving Home, by Lynn Freed (2005)
This is a non-fiction book about what it is like to be a writer. Or, rather, it is about what it is like to be a writer like Lynn Freed. Have you read many books written by authors about writing? No, neither have I, but the few I've read always go the same way: a combination of "here's how to do it" and "you can't learn to do it" and "critics suck." As with anything that requires born talent to do it correctly, writing is something that can't quite be explained: there is the way the writer feels as if she does it, and there is the basic genetic ability, and who knows what strings are pulled by what?
As I was reading this book, I kept meaning to stop reading it. I would find I'd moved my eyes across a whole page without absorbing any information, and I'd think, "This is not interesting enough to keep reading; I will read something else." But then I'd keep reading it. Partly I was entranced by the photo on the cover of the author as a younger woman, and by the photo on the back flap of the author today; she is striking-looking, and hard to stop looking at. Partly I guess the book was interesting enough after all.
The Memory Artists, by Jeffrey Moore (2004)
It took me such a long time to plow through this book, and it was not even worth it. I persevered because the subject matter (synaesthete genius son works to save Alzheimer's Disease-ridden mother) was so intriguing, but the book itself was so cluttered and self-conscious and lecturing and contrived and expositional, I could hardly stand it--and now I wish I hadn't tried. It pretends to be a true story, complete with newspaper articles, diary entries, and endnotes. Dialogue was leaden, laborious and boring, sometimes nothing more than awkwardly posed Q&A sessions intended to inform the reader of pertinent background information. The "diaries" are just as bad, and sessions where Noel (the synaesthete) demonstrates his ability to remember practically everything are deadly.
The Accidental, by Ali Smith (2005)
Note to self: When a book is described as "lyrical" and "whimsical" and--worst of all--"a tour de force of literary improvisation," the book will sacrifice prose in favor of poetry, meaning in favor of pretty-sounding words, the careful work of writing in favor of vomiting words mindlessly onto the page. Self, you will not enjoy that.
It is a sad, sad thing that the plot of this book is so excellent, because otherwise I could have abandoned it as soon as I saw that the author had started not with one irrelevant quote from her high school "Book of Quotes I Like!!!" notebook, but with FOUR. I could have abandoned it when I realized this was the kind of author who would show off with a word only she and I and a handful of others would be able to understand without putting the book down and looking it up in the dictionary, rather than attempting to speak clearly to her readers and immerse them in the story. I could certainly have abandoned it when I encountered the way the first chapter begins, without even a capital letter: "of things -- when is it exactly? Astrid Smart wants to know. (Astrid Smart. Astrid Berenski. Astrid Smart. Astrid Berenski.) 5.04 a.m. on the substandard clock radio. Because why do people always say the day starts now?" Or later when I realized each character was going to speak in his or her own voice, and that those "voices" would be defined via catch phrases, just like in a sitcom where one character always says "Yeahhhhh, whatever" and another always says "If you know what I mean." Or when, around the same time, I realized that we would be treated to the experience of living inside these people's heads, and that the way the author would attempt to achieve this would be to use extremely short sentences and lots of italics and stream-of-consciousness blather. I will give you an example: "Men are but boys grown tall. The past appears right there in the room, the woodland glade, the dead person right there in the room. You coward. You ran away when you knew the truth! Your son will never know you if I can help it. Jesus saves the blind child. Oh -- oh yes -- I think I can see the light. The Love-Light. Mary Pickford tells the nun she wants the child back. The nun shakes her head. I know, Sister Lucia, you think I'm crazy. But I'm not. The police shoot the striking miners dead. The pagan Chink gets a taste of the result of two thousand years of civilization. Lillian Gish is about to have her head cut off in the French Revolution. When a woman loves, she forgives. Constance Talmadge lives in the mountains and refuses to marry. Blue Blood and Red. The Ten Commandments. The Campbells Are Coming." And do you know what? It goes the hell ON! For PAGES!
But! The plot, it is good. A woman shows up at a family's vacation home. She apologizes for being late, and everyone assumes she's there for someone else. They invite her to dinner, and to stay the night, and before long she has moved in. She is nothing-to-lose frank with them, saying things that are absolutely true but are assumed to be jokes because no one would typically say such things. Soon the entire family is in love with her and can't imagine what their lives were like before her. But who IS she? Where did she come from? And wait until you find out what she ends up doing to them.
Here is my second note to self: If a book is lyrical and blathery, it will not wrap up the loose ends in a satisfying way. Still, I maintain that the plot is good, and good to read. I was willing to wade through everything I hated in order to pick out the bits that were genuine plot, but I will understand if you are not willing to make that same sacrifice.