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" .....
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more