A Family Daughter, by Maile Meloy (2006)
The last two books I read, I struggled to force myself to continue reading the loosely-structured---oh, pardon me, I mean "lyrical"---prose. What a relief to start this book and immediately see that characters were going to walk into rooms, have conversations, pursue hobbies---all in a regular, living-their-lives manner, without any stream-of-consciousness filler.
I can't tell you what the book is about, because it's the kind of book where everything happens (sex, scandal, incest, crises, unknown origin of a baby, affairs, insanity, death), and yet it's not the least bit one of those books with metallic letters on the cover: it doesn't seem invented or sensational, just a normal assortment of family problems.
Adverbs, by Daniel Handler (2006)
It is a puzzle to me, why I would continue reading a book that is so firmly surreal, when I so heartily dislike surreal. Furthermore, one of the most exciting parts ends in the middle, saying "...and let's leave now. It is clear what is going to happen," which, since it is NOT clear to ME, makes me feel not only cheated but stupid. Many interesting plotlines are left hanging: what really happened here? what does this MEAN? And I hate that. So why did I read the entire book, all the way to the last sentence? I think it is because I find the author so appealing, for reasons I can't explain. I have read several of his children's books (written under the pseudonym Lemony Snicket) and I found him appealing then, too.
It is hard to resist a certain kind of blatant author intrusion, where in the thick of the plot the author will say something like, "Hillary is based on a real comic artist whose work my wife hates." It is hard to resist this kind of aside: "The detective took his lazy time. 'My partner and I,' he said, and his sweeping palm said and our hats,...". It is hard to resist the unnecessary clarification in "The partner put the place mat down and spread his hands on it like he was healing the sick, which he was not doing." And how charming is it when an author says "...that's where you walk with friends and hear about their endless problems, taking secret notes all the while for a novel..."? Very charming, that's how charming.
Look, maybe you like surreal, in which case I think you should try this book. And maybe you just like Daniel Handler, in which case it's also a good bet.
Baby Proof, by Emily Giffin (2006)
There are two kinds of "chick lit." One kind is intelligent and well-written, but is called "chick lit" to make it clear that books written by women and about women are lightweight and unimportant. The other kind is one step up from the quality of romance novels: better written, more of a plot, but genuinely lightweight and unimportant. This book falls into the latter category. Does the main character like expensive shoes and have a job in publishing? Why, yes she does! Does the author wear trendy clothes and jewelry (and, undoubtedly, expensive shoes) and pose in a uncomfortable, model-ish way, carefully tilted to show us her best angle? Why, yes she does!
A good storyteller, as I have said many, many times before, can take a basic human-existence plot such as "husband wants baby, wife doesn't" and make it sheer magic, can make it seem totally new. A mediocre storyteller takes the same plot and renders it in a way that reminds us that every story is a recycled story. There is nothing here that is new, nothing that gives the heart that little leap. Point B follows point A, and point C follows them both, and why not print the formula in the back of the book so the reader can write her own mediocre novel? The writing is fine, but the book is uninspired.
A Good Yarn, by Debbie Macomber (2005)
This is chick lit for the middle-aged chick: knitting and pursed lips in place of Blahniks and snark.
This particular example of the genre is of mediocre quality. Each chapter begins with a dull, perky knitting quote: "When in doubt, grab a ball of yarn and Get Creative!" The characters are boring rehashings of characters we've seen a million times before, and of course there are four of them and the chapters switch among them. The characters' inner thoughts are used to preach on the subject of credit cards ("In our day, we didn't use them"), caring for aging parents ("She took care of me, and now it's my turn"), and other topics your grandparents have already lectured you on. The dialogue is television dialogue: "Do you really think so?" "I know so," and, "Follow your heart, Mom. Follow your heart." The plots spin out with utter predictability into gagging sweetness, with everyone skipping around with the fairies and learning the true value of true friends and the deep soul-filling joy of knitting.
At any point in the novel, I could have put it down without a backward glance. The temptation to do so increased each time I encountered a passage such as this: "'Okay, okay.' He laughed and held up both hands. 'I didn't have a clue I was such a hero.' 'You are. You're my hero.' He sobered then, the laughter vanishing from his eyes. 'And you're mine.'" Oh my god, make it stop.
You're Not You, by Michelle Wildgen (2006)
The title refers to something Kate, a woman in the late stages of ALS, says to her caregiver Bec when Bec is balking at translating words she doesn't think Kate should be saying. Kate snaps, "This is me. You're not you right now." It is one of many moments in the book when it is made clear that Kate, though paralyzed and in need of assistance for everything from peeing to speaking, is still her own person, in charge of her own decisions---no matter what Bec thinks of those decisions. This becomes even more important later on, when Kate continues to remind Bec that Bec may not call 911 in an emergency without Kate's permission, because Kate doesn't want to end up attached to a respirator in a hospital.
This is an excellent book, absorbing and thought-provoking and interesting, with highly likeable characters. My single, solitary complaint is that it features YET ANOTHER Kate. When, oh when will authors stop using "Kate"? Is it some sort of right of passage, that every author must have at least one major character named Kate? Is it some sort of pact with a publishing devil: you will be published, but in return you must name a character Kate? It is maddening.
The Doctor's Daughter, by Hilma Wolitzer (2006)
A good review is much harder to write than a bad one. What should I say? The writing was good. The characters were believable. The plot moved along. No one was named Kate. No one examined themselves in the mirror and contemplated their own fiery tresses and snapping green eyes and creamy ivory skin. No one used this speaking pattern: "I don't know, Kate. I just don't know."
Alice is a middle-aged women with three grown children. She wakes up one morning with a feeling that something is wrong, and she spends the entire book trying to discover what it is. It's a good book, and this is the good review.