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Book 122: Marlena



“I’ve never believed in the idea of an innocent bystander. The act of watching changes what happens. Just because you don’t touch anything doesn’t mean you are exempt. You might be tempted to forgive me for being just fifteen, in over my head, for not knowing what to do, for not understanding, yet, the way even the tiniest choices domino, until you’re irretrievably grown up, the person you were always going to be. Or in Marlena’s case, the person you’ll never have the chance to be. The world doesn’t care that you’re just a girl.”

Dates read: January 30- February 2, 2017

Rating: 6/10

When you think about it, we usually meet our friends for the most stupidly mundane reasons. A girl who was a friend of mine in high school was someone I’d made friends with in first grade because we were always at the end of the tallest-to-shortest line together. My friend Kailey and I became friends because I just happened to be one of the first people she met when she moved to my school district in fifth grade. One of my closest friends in college was someone who’d become close to my then-boyfriend through the Greek system and we just all started hanging out together. It’s strange to think that people who have been huge parts of my life are people I very well would never have known if not for mere accidents of geography and chance.

In Julie Buntin’s Marlena, fifteen year-old Catherine encounters the friend who will change her world forever, the titular Marlena, because she happens to move next door to Marlena’s family. A year earlier she’d been known as Cathy, a motivated student at a private high school outside of Detroit, but then her parents divorced and her mother, short on resources, moves her and her brother Jimmy to the northern Lower Peninsula to start over. Catherine decides to become Cat, and her seventeen year-old neighbor becomes her best friend. Marlena is what could be delicately described as a troubled young woman: her mother has long since vanished and her father cooks meth in the woods, she’s the closest thing her decade-younger brother has to a parent, she’s hooked on opiates and has a squicky relationship with the older man who provides her pills to her. The intense friendship that springs up between the girls draws Cat into a new world: drugs and booze and sex and cutting class. But after a year, Cat tells us, Marlena will be dead, found drowned in a shallow stream in the woods.

The story is told on two tracks: mostly the story of the year in which Marlena was a part of Cat’s life, but also Cat all grown up, working at a library in New York City, long past that time in her life. Or is she? The unhealthy relationship she developed as a teenager with alcohol is still with her, threatening to unwind her relationship and career. This is not as successful a framing mechanism as it could be: the portions in Michigan are dominant and the underdevelopment of the portions in New York render them almost superfluous. I think with some editing to balance out the narratives better, the book would have been more powerful. As it is, it’s good: the friendship between the girls rings true, and Buntin draws them and the supporting characters in ways that make them complex and interesting.

Although I am in no way trying to imply any kind of impropriety, there’s no denying that this book has distinct similarities to Emma Cline’s The Girls and it’s interesting that both came out around the same time. Both are books about young, relatively sheltered teenage girls who find themselves drawn into an intense bond with an older girl. The older girl in question in both stories draws the younger into “dark” situations: drinking, drugs, sex. Both books intersperse the story of the one-time friendship with flash-forwards to the girl all grown up, looking back on that time of her life. And since the comparison is obvious, it has to be said that for me, Cline’s is better. Buntin’s makes me excited to see how she follows up this debut, but it falls short of greatness and lacks the raw power of The Girls. I’d still recommend it, though, especially for those that enjoy stories about strong female friendships and coming-of-age stories. 

Tell me, blog friends…did you ever have a super close friendship as a teenager?

One year ago, I was reading: The Love Song of Jonny Valentine 

Two years ago, I was reading: Yes Please

Book 113: The Guineveres



“I gave up writing in my notebook a long time ago- life got in the way, and I grew out of the habit. Besides, after everything that happened that year, there were some things I didn’t wish to remember, some questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Back then, I hadn’t realized that time had a way of providing the answers. Back then, I believed The Guineveres were all I had.”

Dates read: December 25-30, 2016

Rating: 9/10

A feeling of belonging is so important. It’s why students do extracurriculars, it’s why adults look for clubs to join on meetup.com. Without a group, we feel isolated. So even if it’s not the group we might have hoped for, we join them. It’s the most pressing, of course, as teenagers. We say and do and wear the most ridiculous things as teenagers in order to fit in, to belong.

The group at the heart of Sarah Domet’s debut novel, The Guineveres, is formed on just about the most prosaic foundation possible: they all share a name. Four young women come to the convent of The Sisters of Supreme Adoration, all for different reasons and out of different situations, but all named Guinevere, and so they become friends. We first meet Ginny, Gwen, Win, and Vere (our narrator) as they’re trying to escape the convent at the annual Easter parade. They’ve got big dreams: they’re going to get an apartment together in the city and become secretaries. They can’t wait until they’re 18 and they’re released. They need to get out now.

Their attempt is foiled, of course. They’re caught and assigned to duty in the sick ward as punishment. And that’s when their lives really do change: five anonymous young men come in, soldiers in the War (it’s never quite identified, but maybe Korea or more likely WWII), all comatose. When one of them regains consciousness, an older girl (close to but not quite 18) is sent home with his family to be his nurse. Which gives rise to the next escape plan: when the remaining boys awaken, the Guineveres will get to go away with them, too.

The action moves forward from there, but backwards too. We learn, gradually, about how each of the girls came to the convent and why, and what becomes of them. Domet takes her time, giving her story room to breathe. Her sense of pacing is top notch: she neither engages in gratuitous info dumping, nor gratuitous info withholding. She lets the tale unfold as it will, with lovely, insightful prose as it works along. It’s become trendy for promising debuts, especially female-centered ones, to be compared to Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides, which happens to be one of my favorite books of all time. That’s a pretty high bar to clear, for me, and this might be the first one that I’ve seen compared to it that I really think measures up. Domet’s quality of writing and crafting of story make me so, so excited to both re-read and see what she does next! Definitely highly recommend this read!

One year ago, I was reading: Helter Skelter

Two years ago, I was reading: Creative Mythology

Book 107: The Girls



“I waited to be told what was good about me. I wondered later if this was why there were so many more women than men at the ranch. All that time I had spent readying myself, the articles that taught me life was really just a waiting room until someone noticed you- the boys had spent that time becoming themselves.”

Dates read: November 24-26, 2016

Rating: 8/10

Teenage girls are kind of sociopaths. I know that I was. You’re just figuring out who you are and who you might want to be, trying on identities like clothes. Everything seems so black and white: you’re a good girl or a bad girl, a nerd or a popular, a prude or a slut. Male attention is both terrifying and intoxicating, often at the same time. You want desperately to feel like an adult and demonstrate that you’re not a child anymore without really knowing what the consequences of your actions could be. It’s a wonder any of us get out of it with even somewhat-functional mental health.

Emma Cline’s The Girls has been widely billed as a novel about the Manson cult, but that’s not entirely accurate. It does feature a significant portion of plot about a Manson-esque group, but what it’s really about, more than anything else, is the heady experience of being a 14 year-old girl. We first meet Evie Boyd as an older woman, staying briefly in a friend’s beach house when she finds herself between gigs as a live-in nurse. Her friend’s college-age son stops by with his teenage girlfriend, and watching them and her brings back Evie’s memories of that fateful summer when she found herself around the edges of the lives of Russell (our Manson stand-in) and his pack of girls.

Evie’s in an especially vulnerable spot that summer; her father has recently left her mother for a young colleague, and Evie and her longtime best friend are starting to drift apart. She’s fascinated by the group of teenage hippies she sees around town, drawn to their exotic-seeming poverty so different from her own comfortable trust-funded existence (she’s the granddaughter of a never-named wealthy former child star clearly modeled on Shirley Temple). Evie’s particularly hypnotized by their ringleader, Suzanne, and the intensity of her infatuation finds her constantly lying and making excuses to go out to the ranch where the group lives, doing whatever she can (sex, drugs, helping the girls break into homes in her own neighborhood) to fit in and attract Suzanne’s attention and praise. But eventually, as in real life, there’s a grisly murder and the hazy fever dream of that summer ends, leaving Evie back in her old world.

Cline has a real gift for atmospheric, lush prose. She creates a powerful sense of mood, a feeling that every moment is weighed with portent…which goes right along with what I remember from being that age. Everything is so close to the surface, and Cline really captures those feelings of uncertainty and being right on the edge of something meaningful that characterize being that age. She also draws a picture-perfect portrait of the kind of all-consumingness of female friendships in the teenage years. It’s a tricky thing to depict without devolving into cliche, but Cline really gets at the heart of that desperation to please the object of your obsession. The plot moves along fairly slowly, but the careful attention paid to creating the ambiance of teenage girlness and the rich, vivid writing more than make up for it. I don’t know that this is a book that would be as successful if you’ve never actually been a young teenage girl and can’t identify with it, but I personally really enjoyed it and would recommend it highly.

Tell me, blog friends…do you regret some of the things you did when you were 14?

One year ago, I was reading: The Wonder

Two years ago, I was reading: Occidental Mythology

Book 77: The Lords of Discipline

 
“To walk in the spire-proud shade of Church Street is to experience the chronicle of a mythology that is particular to this city and this city alone, a trinitarian mythology with equal parts of the sublime, the mysterious, and the grotesque. But there is nothing to warn you of Charleston’s refined cruelty. That knowledge must be earned. No gargoyles hang from the sides of St. Philip’s or St. Michael’s. No messages are in the iron scrollwork of its gates to warn visitors like Poe, Osceola, me, and you.”

Read: August 7-12, 2016

Rating: 10/10

When I’m grabbing my next book to read, I’m not reaching into a bookshelf and snagging whatever catches my eye. I have a spreadsheet. I have SO many unread books that it’s really the only way to keep it together. I try to alternate hard copies and Kindle titles, and try to read about three ARCs for every five backlist titles. Since I’ve bought a lot of books over the years, it’s the only way I’ll be able to make sure I actually read all of them…without making myself do it, a lot of the older stuff would just pile up as shiny new things stole my attention away. Sometimes this means I read books I’m not actually super interested in anymore. That’s okay, because it also means there are some total gems, like Pat Conroy’s The Lords of Discipline, that I snagged on Kindle sale years ago and forgot. I honestly don’t even know what drew me to buy the book in the first place, military school coming-of-age doesn’t really speak to me, but I’m really glad that I did buy it because I loved it.

Will McLean is about to start his senior year at the Institute, a military academy in Charleston (based on the Citadel, Conroy’s own alma mater). He didn’t really want to go, but promised his father he would before his father died and gets a basketball scholarship anyways. He’s not distinguished himself as a military man during his time there and doesn’t plan to enlist and ship out to Vietnam as so many of his classmates intend, but he’s almost made it through and is closely bonded with his three roommates, especially native blue-blooded Charlestonian Tradd St. Croix. Will is a quasi-outsider…while he’s Southern and from an Institute family, he’s also Catholic and an athlete, and probably the closest thing to a liberal on campus. Which is why he’s assigned to look after incoming student Tom Pearce, the first black student to ever enroll, and protect him from the threat of a mysterious group called The Ten, who are deadset against integration. As Will’s final year unfolds, he relives his own traumatic freshman year and we see how he’s been shaped (sometimes against his own will) by the experiences he’s had at the Institute as he tries to look out for Pearce, investigates The Ten, and falls in love with a troubled young socialite.

First of all, Conroy is an incredible writer. His plotting and pacing are masterful. He covers a lot of territory (freshman hazing, two suicides, a love affair, an investigation into a shadowy group, the experience of participating in organized athletics), but it never drags, nor does it feel overcrowded. Drama drives not from the mystery plot (which really only picks up in the last 20% or so of the book), but from experiences and relationships. The prose is strong and sure, lyrical without verging into purple territory, poignant and resonant. I have to imagine that Conroy loves Charleston as much as his protagonist does, because much of his most sweeping and sentimental prose is dedicated to the city and made me want to take a visit there myself.

The characters Conroy creates feel real…we obviously spend the most time with and are asked to identify the most with Will, but he’s not perfect or beyond reproach. Even the person who’s ultimately revealed as the “bad guy” has motivations that make sense. He places those characters in high-stakes situations without turning it into the lurid melodrama it could spill over into with less control. It’s just a fantastic novel and I’m adding everything Conroy wrote to my TBR and I recommend this book highly to anyone, even if you don’t think you’d like it.

Tell me, blog friends…has an author ever painted such a lovely picture of a place you feel inspired to visit there?

One year ago, I was reading: We Need To Talk About Kevin

Top Ten Tuesday: Things That Instantly Make Me Want To Read A Book

Top Ten Tuesday is a weekly linkup of book bloggers hosted by The Broke and The Bookish! This week’s topic: things that make me instantly want to read a book. Not in the sense of “long committee meetings” or “when my husband pops in a sports video game”, but more like things about the book itself that make me want to pick it up. I try to read a pretty broad spectrum of books, but here are ten things that I get a little extra excited about when I see in a book I’m thinking about picking up.

Royalty: Not even going to lie, this is probably the top one. Both fiction and non. I love me some royalty books. Give me queens and kings and princes and princesses.

A Michigan connection: As a native Michigander, I’m always a sucker for books about my homeland.

Female friendships: Some of the deepest and most meaningful relationships in my life have been with the women that are my friends. I love reading about the platonic-but-no-less-profound-for-being-so bonds that form between women and comparing and contrasting them to my own friendships

Dysfunctional families: It’s like Tolstoy said…every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Really getting into the dynamics between people that might not have picked each other, if given the chance, but are tied together by blood and love anyways is a favorite reading experience of mine.

Coming of age: The experience of growing up is a universal one, and one that I don’t feel quite “done” with yet, even at 31. So stories that draw on that experience are, to me, just incredibly compelling.

Post-apocalyptic: I used to be more interested in dystopias until it seemed like they were everywhere (but not always very well done). I’m finding myself more drawn these days to books that think about the world we live in and what might happen after a catastrophic event.

Character-driven: At the end of the day, I’m happy with a book that might not have much in the way of exciting storylines as long as it creates memorable and vivid characters.

True crime: Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated with stories about awful crimes and the detectives that solved them. It’s a weird morbid streak that’s not something I think most people I know would think that I have.

Neurology: Oliver Sacks did it best, but I love reading about our brains and how the ways they get it right and wrong impact human lives.

Retelling: Folklore and fairy tales, those first stories that we ever know and become ingrained in us, are all the more interesting to take apart and see from another angle.

Book 51: The Witches of Eastwick

 
“There was so much dirt in life, so many eraser crumbs and stray coffee grounds and dead wasps trapped inside the storm windows, that it seemed all of a person’s time- all of a woman’s time, at any rate- was spent in reallocation, taking things from one place to another, dirt being as her mother had said simply matter in the wrong place.”

Dates read: May 8-11, 2016

Rating: 3/10

Lists/awards: NY Times Bestseller

Sometimes I feel like a fake “serious reader”. Which is the most ridiculous first world problem, I know. But there are so many of the classics, so many high-profile novelists, that I haven’t read: Murakami, The Count of Monte Cristo, Faulkner, Catch-22. And until now, John Updike. But a secondhand copy of The Witches of Eastwick, which I’d seen the very cheesy 80s movie version of quite some time ago and enjoyed watching, came into my path and I decided it was time to cross that one off my list.

And this is one of those instances where (at least for my money), the movie was better than the book. They both have a similar setup: three socially outcast women living in a small town in Rhode Island become involved with a mysterious stranger, Daryl Van Horn, who comes to town and chaos ensues. In the movie, the women become witches under Daryl’s satanic influence, and band together to turn against him when he causes harm. But that’s not where the book goes. The book is much darker, and it suffers for it. When you’re dealing with heavy stuff like magic and death and the devil, you need a little levity to keep it from dragging.

When Updike opens his novel, the three women (Alexandra, Jane, and Sukie) are already witches. A widow and two divorcees in a small town in the early 1960s, they are outside the conservative social order and each others’ only real friends. They aren’t especially nice people: they frequently behave spitefully, none of them are at all involved in their children’s lives, and are all sleeping with married men. When Daryl Van Horn, the devil hisownself, arrives in town, he doesn’t imbue them with power as much as heighten their ambition (and start having orgies with them, of course, because that’s apparently what the devil does). While all of the women have romantic designs on Daryl on some level, they share him relatively peacefully until a younger woman, Jenny, joins their group and eventually succeeds in becoming Mrs. Van Horn. The witches are jealous and band together to use their magic to kill her. Van Horn then skips town with Jenny’s younger brother and the women each, eventually, conjure up a good man and themselves depart Eastwick.

Like I said earlier, it’s a lot of pretty heavy material without much to lighten it up. The women have some small moments of sympathy, but are largely negative people that aren’t very enjoyable to read about. You would think that the literal devil would be a compelling character, at least. He’s supposed to be interesting, right? Not as Updike writes him. Daryl is never written as even particularly physically attractive, much less the charismatic wily schemer you would expect the Prince of Darkness to be. There was no one to care about, much less identify with or root for. Updike’s writing is good (if you’re into the flowery-language-and-run-on-sentences kind of writing, which I tend to be), but the story falls completely flat.

Because I didn’t like the book, I spent much less time thinking about it and its plot as a story and more time wondering if I thought this was, as it is usually considered, a feminist work. On the one hand, you have women who are close friends, who have discovered and own their power, who have the sex lives they want to have, who are not defined by their motherhood, and who are unapologetic for any of this. While we’re often presented with narratives about men who behave in an antisocial manner and asked to consider them the heroes of the story, The Witches of Eastwick is a rare example of this phenomenon for female characters. On the other hand, they aren’t given many redeeming features, either: they aren’t funny or really all that interesting, they’re petty, and they’re driven to a murderous jealous rage over…a man. Their “happy endings” only come when they’ve each found themselves…a man. I think on the balance, it’s more feminist than not, but I will qualify that by saying that Updike writes terribly about the experience of being a woman. When he writes about sex or menses, it’s cringeworthy. And even if it’s mostly feminist, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I didn’t, and I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s just not fun to read.

Tell me, blog friends…what major works or authors haven’t you read yet?

One year ago, I was reading: Oriental Mythology

Book 48: Enchanted Islands

“But I found his dedication to the craft a sign that he was an enlightened being, like those monks who spend years crafting sand paintings only to sweep them away once they’ve finished. Now I see he was keeping himself busy, keeping the demons at bay. But demons are not dissuaded by oceans or preferences; they stow away like sea lice, unwanted visitors from another place, coming ashore with you wherever you go.”

Dates read: May 2-5, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I turned 31 earlier this month. I still don’t feel like a grown up. I don’t pick up after myself with any sort of regularity. I eat frozen dinners at least a couple times per week. I laugh at fart jokes. I love T-Rexes and have a model skeleton of one in my office (courtesy of our incredible office manager, who not only got it for me but built it for me as a gift). I can take down a whole tube of Pringles in one sitting if I’m not paying attention. I’ve only recently started flossing regularly, and insist on using the little picks or I won’t do it. My life only vaguely resembles the one I thought I’d have when I was younger: I was going to stay in Michigan and be a prosecutor. But here I am, a lobbyist in Nevada. I don’t think of myself as an adult, even now that I’m married. When are we finally done growing up?

The answer, as gleaned from Allison Amend’s Enchanted Islands, is much later than we think. Frances Frankowski is a shy, bookish girl growing up in a poor family in Duluth when she meets fellow youngster Rosalie at the library and the two become instant best friends. They grow up together, but when Frances learns that Rosalie is being exploited when the two are teenagers, they run away to Chicago. After some time there, Rosalie betrays Frances’ trust, and Frances flees…first to Nebraska, then to San Francisco, where after a stint as a teacher, she eventually winds up as a secretary for naval intelligence when she’s in her late 40s. She runs back into Rosalie and they are reconnecting after decades apart when Frances is offered the chance for marriage to a handsome younger man as part of a secret mission in the Galapagos, and when she accepts it, she alters the course of the rest of her life.

The book is split into four parts comprising two real halves: Frances’ life before she meets her husband Ainslie and goes to the Galapagos, and after. The first half takes us through Frances’ family life and the beginnings of her deep friendship with Rosalie. The book actually starts with Frances and Rosalie together in a nursing home, having both outlived their husbands, so we knows theirs is a relationship that stands the test of time going in. But the seeds of their break are planted early, and when it comes, we’re as saddened as Frances herself is but not really surprised. What is surprising is that they manage to find their way back together early in the second half: a chance encounter in a movie theater in San Francisco, thousands of miles from where they once were girls together. By then, Frances is already contemplating the offer of a sham marriage and an adventure overseas, and it’s as much a vain desire to announce to her friend that she IS married, thank you, that convinces her to go for it as anything else. The relationship she and Ainslie create, which sustains long after their mission has ended, is just as lovely but never more important than Frances’ relationship with her real soulmate…her best and dearest and oldest friend. I’ve always had a soft spot for stories about female friendship, because my relationships with my girl friends have occupied such a central place in my own life.

This was a good book, and I’ve actually gone back and added one of Amend’s previous novels to my to-be-read list, because I really enjoyed her writing, which is sure and strong. It actually struck me as I was reading it that this seems like the book that Sena Naslund thought she was writing when she wrote Ahab’s Wife…minor personage (in this case, Frances Conway was a real person, who wrote two books about her time in the Galapagos, but she’s not notable enough to have her own Wikipedia entry because all the secret spy mission stuff is completely made up), fiercely independent, facing obstacles, adventures, and hardships with strong will and determination. But Amend’s work is far superior: she allows Frances to be flawed: prickly, occasionally small-minded, and petty. In doing so, she creates a beautifully realized character who is sympathetic and compelling. All three of the main characters are, really. Amend is a gifted writer and I would recommend this book wholeheartedly.

Tell me, blog friends…when did you start feeling like a grown-up? Or do you at all?

**I received a free copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review**

One year ago, I was reading: The Nazi Officer’s Wife

Book 38: The Group

 

“Helena, who was as immune to social snobbery as she was to the ‘fond passion’, had not felt the charm of the South Tower group to the same extent as Kay, but she raised no objections to the alliance, even though her teachers and her parents had worried a little, thinking, like Norine, that an ‘exclusive elite’ was a dangerous set to play in, for a girl who had real stuff in her.” 

Dates read: March 30-April 2, 2016

Rating: 8/10

Lists/awards: NY Times Bestseller

My husband was my third serious boyfriend. We’ve been together for almost four years now and I think he’s just the greatest thing since sliced bread. But as wonderful as he is and as much as I love him, I know that the deepest and most emotionally rich relationships I have right now are the ones I have with my close friends, Kailey and Crystal, that I’ve known since elementary school. They have known me and seen me and been there for me through my experiences growing up, through family conflict, through ugly breakups. They know me better than just about anybody and probably better than I know my own self. I believe that I’ll be friends with Kailey and Crystal for the rest of my life.

So stories about female friendships and how they grow and change over time and through life experiences are catnip to me. Mary McCarthy’s The Group follows eight young women who graduate from Vassar in 1933 and the course their lives take over the next seven years. The novel kicks off with the rather impulsive wedding of one of their number, Kay, to her long-distance and mysterious boyfriend Harald almost immediately after graduation. Kay’s marriage (and its deterioration) make up the most coherent through-line of the story, which follows the members of the group one at a time as they make their way in the world (the world being 1930’s New York for the most part) and continue to be involved in each other’s lives. McCarthy’s writing is sharp and insightful, and the characters she writes feel very real…all of them are self-deluding to some extent and McCarthy lets you “watch” them do it through her narration of their lives.

What struck me as I read this book, which was apparently enormously popular when it was published in the 60s, was how even though it was written 50 years ago and takes place another 30 years before that, it was so modern in many ways. Sure, some of the references are pretty dated, but the challenges these women face are largely similar to the ones we’re continuing to face today: the difference between sex and love (and wanting the former to mean the latter even when you know it doesn’t), dead-end relationships, sexism in the workplace, sexuality, marriage, raising kids. There’s a character, Priss, who has a child and is struggling with the decision of whether to breast feed or bottle feed and the way she feels like she’s doing it wrong depending on who’s she’s talking to. The Mommy Wars feel very current and endemic to the current social media-laden climate, but this book makes it obvious that it goes back waaay further than that. It’s easy to feel like the stuff your generation is facing is new and different than the things that previous generations struggled with, but it’s really much more similar than you might think. Plus ca change and all that.

Tell me, blog friends…do you still keep with high school and college friends?

Book 33: Private Citizens

 

“She felt mute and illiterate in the language of power, which was money. She knew that corporate oligarchs used it to subvert democracy. But she was hazy on macro and micro; how US trade agreements affected sweatshop conditions in Indonesia; what the Fed did, exactly. Her efforts to research the housing market crisis ended in page-crumpling fury- credit default swaps? Mortgage-backed securities? Collateralized debt obligations? How could people be moral when morality obliged you to know everything? It was her fault for not studying econ in college, but she’d had so much contempt for the future ibankers that it had seemed principled not to.”

Dates read: March 19-22, 2016

Rating: 8/10

I may have graduated from college almost ten years ago (eep!) but I went straight to law school after that, so I really only started to have that post-graduation trying-to-figure-it-out experience about 6 years ago. It took me a couple years….I spent nine months trying to find a job as a lawyer, doing a couple stints of book rush at the college bookstore to score some pocket money, then once I got into litigation practice I washed out (I have no problem admitting I couldn’t handle the pressure) after about a year and a half. From there, I was lucky enough to have a friend with a connection to the Obama campaign in Nevada, and figured I could spend a few months doing field organizing, making enough money to cover expenses while I contemplated next steps. But I met my now-husband while campaigning, and so I stayed in Nevada. Needing a job, I happened to find out about an internship with a lobbying firm during legislative session. I took it, and they liked me so much they kept me! Things in my life have been pretty stable since, but those 2-3 years right after graduation were fumbling and awkward and kind of scary sometimes.

Which is all to say that the just-graduated-and-I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing, trying to discern out who you really are and what you really want to do era isn’t all that far behind me, considering that I’m 30. That time in their lives is what the characters in Tony Tulathimutte‘s Private Citizens are facing, so I had an immediate connection with the story. Confused social activist Cory, insecure tech worker Will, unstable grad student Henrik and self-destructive wannabe writer Linda all knew each other at Stanford and live in and around tech-boom San Francisco, and the story follows each of them in turn as they try to figure out the obstacles in front of them: Cory’s inheritance of a flailing nonprofit, Will’s inability to cope with his hyperambitious, emotionally withholding girlfriend Vanya, Henrick’s loss of funding for his research and recurrence of bipolar disorder, and Linda’s drug issues and infatuation with her own perceived genius. They’re not friends anymore, per se, more like people whose lives intertwined in college as roommates or in ill-fated relationships, and never came completely apart. And as their lives get more complicated and harder, they find themselves coming back together.

Both Tulathimutte’s characterizations and grasp on the thorny knot it can be to be a millennial are strong and ring true. Cory and Will and Henrik and Linda all feel like real, if highly magnified, people. None of them are especially likable, but all of them can be sympathetic. They’re all experiencing the fuzzy mess of trying to check your privilege, of trying to find the right boundaries between your online life and your real one, figuring out your own niche in a crowded world, living up to the praise and expectations you’ve been inundated with for your whole life. It’s trendy to dismiss millennial malaise as a bunch of whining from spoiled brats, but Tulathimutte understands that it isn’t that simple. We were raised to believe that you earn a medal just for showing up, that you can be anything you want to be…and when it turns out that your life isn’t particularly special, you can’t shake the feeling that it’s your fault, somehow, that you’ve failed yourself and wasted your potential. The writing is maybe a little heavy on esoteric word choices, but it’s sharp and incisive and compelling. I’m not sure how I felt about the end, though…it felt like a bit of a departure from the rest of the book, at least in part. But maybe when I read it again (and I plan to), knowing how it winds up, it’ll fit more cohesively.

Tell me, blog friends…how long did it take you to get yourself together after college?

**I received a free copy of this book from the publisher, William Morris, through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and honest review**

Note: Review cross-posted at Cannonball Read

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