Recently, I wrote about Lisa Jewell's "Watching You," and I have to say, three-quarters in, I still feel that this novel does not disappoint. I don't think these characters will stay with me much longer than the next two or three days--but while they're here--feast your eyes on....
-The fifteen-year-old who may be sleeping with her headmaster--and who may also be pregnant!
-The mother with extreme OCD/bipolar disorder--who believes that a gang of conspirators is hounding her (and who may also, beneath all that craziness, have an important key to understanding the novel in its entirety, because you can't always judge a book by its cover) --!
-The seemingly upstanding citizen who might have a history of rape--and who might be plotting to rape again!
-The glassy-eyed mom-to-be--who has a shadowy past involving a suicide and some serious and troubling doubts about motherhood!
-The newlywed who gropes a bit on the side--and who has a habit of spilling out tawdry confessions at her mother's grave!
Am I learning anything about human behavior as I make my way through this book? Perhaps not. But I notice certain genre trends I enjoy. It's popular--right now--to work *without* a detective. I'm thinking of "Girl on the Train," "Gone Girl," the stand-alone Laura Lippmans--where, if there *is* a detective, he or she is sort of on the sidelines. (But then there's the work of Charles Finch, and the work of Louise Penny, in which detectives are alive and well, and prominent.)
It's popular to have a present-day story unfolding while a recent-past story also unfolds. The present story sheds light on the past story, and vice versa. Think of Stephen King's "Dolores Claiborne," where we're not sure Kathy Bates will abstain from strangling her daughter in the present--and, while we ponder that question, we're also treated to snippets of memory, snippets of Bates's days of Young Motherhood. ("Watching You" has past/present back-and-forths--but the novel misses an opportunity. There isn't really any tension in the "present-day" story; the present-day story is just a series of rather bland interview transcripts. If Jewell had taken time to develop the character of the inquisitor, the present-day material might seem juicier. Jewell might have studied "Damages," which uses the past/present technique, and which makes the present-day stuff moderately pulpy by casting a quirky actor, a guy from "Manhunter," as the inquisitor.)
"Years later, she would remember this moment." That's a favorite sentence from Jennifer Haigh; she uses it ad nauseam in "Baker Towers," and she is clearly borrowing from "One Hundred Years of Solitude." ("Later, when he stood before the firing squad, he would remember....") Haigh says she likes writing about the past because--looking back--you know *which seemingly insignificant details* will prove to be crucial. The reader senses your knowledge. The reader wonders: Why am I dwelling on this seemingly pedestrian exchange about eighth-grade arithmetic? The novelist has secrets I don't have, and so, even though I seem to be reading about something small, there's a sense of weightiness, of mystery, here. I'm handling a crucial puzzle piece--something disguised.
Jewell is not the "high-toned literary writer" that Haigh is, but she likes that "mysteries of the past" approach, as well. We read about fairly banal high-school interactions, and about foggy recollections of vacations--and we know that they *have significance* ....even when we don't know what that significance is. That's fun. It feels like amateur sleuthing.
After Jewell, I may turn to Denise Mina, Charles Finch, A.J. Finn, and whoever wrote "The Wife Between Us." All of these people are reasonably well-regarded literary technicians. And I might also investigate "chick lit"; I'm thinking about Jennifer Weiner. Who says everything you pick up needs to have won a Pulitzer? Genre work can be compelling. Happy reading!
P.S. It's likely there's something pithy to say about current thrillers and women. I'm thinking about "Girl on the Train" and "Big Little Lies." Pulpy settings become a way for writers to comment on rather serious matters: female friendship, codependency, efforts to fight alcoholism or depression, etc. It's almost laughable how cookie-cutter the titles seem: "Gone Girl," "Girl on the Train," "Woman in Cabin 10," "Woman in the Window," "Woman in the Water," "Girl in the Red Coat," "The Sisters Chase." The writers seem to be saying: We know our audience. We're writing for women--and for gay men. But I think, if you disregarded these novels, if you wrote them off as something unworthy, as specimens of some "sub-chick-lit" category, then you might be doing yourself a disservice. Good things sometimes come in odd packages.
-The fifteen-year-old who may be sleeping with her headmaster--and who may also be pregnant!
-The mother with extreme OCD/bipolar disorder--who believes that a gang of conspirators is hounding her (and who may also, beneath all that craziness, have an important key to understanding the novel in its entirety, because you can't always judge a book by its cover) --!
-The seemingly upstanding citizen who might have a history of rape--and who might be plotting to rape again!
-The glassy-eyed mom-to-be--who has a shadowy past involving a suicide and some serious and troubling doubts about motherhood!
-The newlywed who gropes a bit on the side--and who has a habit of spilling out tawdry confessions at her mother's grave!
Am I learning anything about human behavior as I make my way through this book? Perhaps not. But I notice certain genre trends I enjoy. It's popular--right now--to work *without* a detective. I'm thinking of "Girl on the Train," "Gone Girl," the stand-alone Laura Lippmans--where, if there *is* a detective, he or she is sort of on the sidelines. (But then there's the work of Charles Finch, and the work of Louise Penny, in which detectives are alive and well, and prominent.)
It's popular to have a present-day story unfolding while a recent-past story also unfolds. The present story sheds light on the past story, and vice versa. Think of Stephen King's "Dolores Claiborne," where we're not sure Kathy Bates will abstain from strangling her daughter in the present--and, while we ponder that question, we're also treated to snippets of memory, snippets of Bates's days of Young Motherhood. ("Watching You" has past/present back-and-forths--but the novel misses an opportunity. There isn't really any tension in the "present-day" story; the present-day story is just a series of rather bland interview transcripts. If Jewell had taken time to develop the character of the inquisitor, the present-day material might seem juicier. Jewell might have studied "Damages," which uses the past/present technique, and which makes the present-day stuff moderately pulpy by casting a quirky actor, a guy from "Manhunter," as the inquisitor.)
"Years later, she would remember this moment." That's a favorite sentence from Jennifer Haigh; she uses it ad nauseam in "Baker Towers," and she is clearly borrowing from "One Hundred Years of Solitude." ("Later, when he stood before the firing squad, he would remember....") Haigh says she likes writing about the past because--looking back--you know *which seemingly insignificant details* will prove to be crucial. The reader senses your knowledge. The reader wonders: Why am I dwelling on this seemingly pedestrian exchange about eighth-grade arithmetic? The novelist has secrets I don't have, and so, even though I seem to be reading about something small, there's a sense of weightiness, of mystery, here. I'm handling a crucial puzzle piece--something disguised.
Jewell is not the "high-toned literary writer" that Haigh is, but she likes that "mysteries of the past" approach, as well. We read about fairly banal high-school interactions, and about foggy recollections of vacations--and we know that they *have significance* ....even when we don't know what that significance is. That's fun. It feels like amateur sleuthing.
After Jewell, I may turn to Denise Mina, Charles Finch, A.J. Finn, and whoever wrote "The Wife Between Us." All of these people are reasonably well-regarded literary technicians. And I might also investigate "chick lit"; I'm thinking about Jennifer Weiner. Who says everything you pick up needs to have won a Pulitzer? Genre work can be compelling. Happy reading!
P.S. It's likely there's something pithy to say about current thrillers and women. I'm thinking about "Girl on the Train" and "Big Little Lies." Pulpy settings become a way for writers to comment on rather serious matters: female friendship, codependency, efforts to fight alcoholism or depression, etc. It's almost laughable how cookie-cutter the titles seem: "Gone Girl," "Girl on the Train," "Woman in Cabin 10," "Woman in the Window," "Woman in the Water," "Girl in the Red Coat," "The Sisters Chase." The writers seem to be saying: We know our audience. We're writing for women--and for gay men. But I think, if you disregarded these novels, if you wrote them off as something unworthy, as specimens of some "sub-chick-lit" category, then you might be doing yourself a disservice. Good things sometimes come in odd packages.
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