Skip to main content

Jennifer Weiner

I put off reading "Mrs. Everything," by Jennifer Weiner, because the thought made me feel guilty. Weiner seems to have a "lightweight" reputation, and even though I'd really liked "Good in Bed," I was feeling snobby...I'm so glad I silenced the inner snob and borrowed "Mrs. Everything" from the library.

Weiner has a great gift for inventing likable, troubled protagonists and throwing them into dramatic situations. You don't spend chapter upon chapter in plotless "inner" scenarios; you're thrown into high-stakes scenes, and bad, shocking things happen. "Mrs. Everything" follows two sisters through the sixties and onward: One represses her lesbianism in a foolish (and understandable) heterosexual union, and the other struggles with food after having been assaulted at a big party.

Both sisters make unwise choices; both seem like people you could befriend, or even people you could become.

Sometimes, Weiner is too "pat": A family showdown feels a bit too much like a scene from a Julia Roberts movie, and a different conflict ends too predictably (and absurdly) with a new wedding gown getting dumped in a swimming pool. But that's a small issue. Mostly, the writing is really fun.

Another plus of spending "book time" with Weiner: You might get interested in her website, which has smart writing advice. Weiner says: Skip the MFA and get a job, and not a job in publishing. She says: Write to please yourself, and not other people. I admire Weiner's pragmatism and her willingness to be controversial. (And I'd direct you, also, to her recent NYT essay: "Why Did It Feel Good to See Trump Booed at the World Series?" Just the question alone--something I hadn't thought to ask, as I gleefully watched the booing--just the question is the sign of an unusual mind, and, if you're a reader, the question is one more reason to feel excited about the complex, puzzling, messy world.)

OK, that's all. Try "Mrs. Everything" .....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...