Since I started writing my own novel, I think I’ve read at least ten chick-lit books in the name of 'research,' and what I’ve discovered is that there is no rubrick for character development, plot, or even number of protagonists. It seems that chick-lit, for all the pigeon-holing it falls victim to, is as wide and varied a genre as literary fiction. Well, maybe not literary fiction. But any other genre besides that.
Anyway, in the past week I’ve read three very different novels, and had very different reactions to them. So I’ve sort of been walking around (well, loafing around) with book reviews in my head and no-one to share them with, save my poor boyfriend, who’s beginning to roll his eyes a bit too much for my taste. But then I thought about you all, and how long I’ve left you pining for another installment of My Oh-so-fascinating Life, and I figured I could subject you to a bit of book review!
The three novels I’ve read most recently have been, in chronological order:
1. Bad Behaviour, by Sheila O’Flanagan (Irish, duh):
Darcey and Nieve were best friends for years, inseparable until a man came between them. Now Nieve is coming back to Ireland to marry the man she stole from Darcey, and both the wedding and outside circumstances are forcing both women to examine their past relationships and their present desires, and reconsider their futures.
That was a shite summary, but really plot is unimportant in these novels (as will be proven by comparison of this book with the following). What was important in Bad Behaviour was the character development (I found myself incredibly involved in their fictitious little lives) and the flow of the writing. The book was constructed almost entirely of scenes, with flashbacks deftly woven into present-day conversations. I found myself devouring this book, much to my boyfriend's chagrin at being ignored. Even during scenes of plot points of which I had been warned earlier in the novel, such as the moment when Nieve steals Aidan from Darcey, I found myself completely engrossed, emotionally involved, and even shocked, as if I’d thought this time Nieve would do the right thing. I don’t know if that made any sense, but the important thing to note is that I become invested in the characters, and that’s something most writers can only hope to achieve.
In all, this book was well-written, engrossing, and easily digested, as all good chick-lit should be.
2. Thanks For The Memories, by Cecelia Ahern (Irish, and daughter of former Irish Taoiseach (PM) Bertie Ahern):
It should be noted that I’ve avoided Cecilia Ahern’s books ever since I picked up PS I Love You, read the back, and nearly vomited in Waterstone’s. However, the girl is 26 and has written six best-selling novels, one of which has become a blockbuster movie, so when I read that back of this most recent work and didn’t spew, I thought maybe I could learn something.
Thanks For The Memories is about an Irish woman and an American man, linked in some kind of other-worldly way through blood the man donated, which ended up in the woman’s body. Joyce, the woman, suddenly finds herself an expert on Architecture, speaking Latin and Italian, and having choking fits when Justin eats his steak a bit too quickly. The basic premise interested me at first, but, as I’ve shown, was so overdone and literal that I found myself scoffing aloud and saying ‘oh please!’ far too often.
So the plot was disappointing, but more disappointing was the writing. It wasn’t entirely hopeless, but the grammar left much to be desired and Ms Ahern was obviously lacking a good editor. There were countless paragraphs in which the verb tense switched willy-nilly from past to plu-perfect to past with no logical reason for the shift. I found myself constantly reading aloud to my boyfriend: “Listen to this, no really… does that make ANY sense to you??” He didn’t really care, but he did agree that the writing was bad, and the plot wasn't that interesting, and I should stop reading the book. But I don’t stop once I’ve started, and I managed to finish in two days.
The thing that bugs me most is that Cecelia Ahern is so successful! It fills me with a most unbecoming bitter envy when I look at her young face in her author photo and then read her confusing sentences and mis-conjugation of ‘to lie.’ Gah! And that is all I’ll say about that. But it wasn’t the worst book I’ve ever read.
31 Dream Street, by Lisa Jewell (English):
Now this book I’m not yet finished with. I should finish by the end of today. Unlike the first novel I reviewed, Dream Street isn’t engrossing. That’s not to say it isn’t interesting, only that I don’t have to tear my eyes from the page to greet my boyfriend when he comes home in the evening. But I really like it. The best word I have to describe the way I feel about the novel, characters, and author is ‘affectionate.’ The writing is sufficiently skillful, the characters likable and well-developed, and the plot interesting and varied. But mostly I just feel warm towards the book. I just like it. Not because it’s overly sweet (in fact the observations are sufficiently wry at times), but because…well I don’t know why. But I would recommend it to anyone looking for a light, warmth-inducing read. I’m sorry this review isn’t more articulate, but somehow I find myself unable to think analytically about this book. I just like it!
So there you have it, a brief review of three chick-lit books. I know this has very little to do with body image, but it seems to me that chick-lit is almost as important to women as their bodies... Ok that's a stretch. But anyway I felt the need to get my opinions out there, and now I have! Hope you've enjoyed this installation of the Chick-Lit review.
Anyway, in the past week I’ve read three very different novels, and had very different reactions to them. So I’ve sort of been walking around (well, loafing around) with book reviews in my head and no-one to share them with, save my poor boyfriend, who’s beginning to roll his eyes a bit too much for my taste. But then I thought about you all, and how long I’ve left you pining for another installment of My Oh-so-fascinating Life, and I figured I could subject you to a bit of book review!
The three novels I’ve read most recently have been, in chronological order:
1. Bad Behaviour, by Sheila O’Flanagan (Irish, duh):
Darcey and Nieve were best friends for years, inseparable until a man came between them. Now Nieve is coming back to Ireland to marry the man she stole from Darcey, and both the wedding and outside circumstances are forcing both women to examine their past relationships and their present desires, and reconsider their futures.
That was a shite summary, but really plot is unimportant in these novels (as will be proven by comparison of this book with the following). What was important in Bad Behaviour was the character development (I found myself incredibly involved in their fictitious little lives) and the flow of the writing. The book was constructed almost entirely of scenes, with flashbacks deftly woven into present-day conversations. I found myself devouring this book, much to my boyfriend's chagrin at being ignored. Even during scenes of plot points of which I had been warned earlier in the novel, such as the moment when Nieve steals Aidan from Darcey, I found myself completely engrossed, emotionally involved, and even shocked, as if I’d thought this time Nieve would do the right thing. I don’t know if that made any sense, but the important thing to note is that I become invested in the characters, and that’s something most writers can only hope to achieve.
In all, this book was well-written, engrossing, and easily digested, as all good chick-lit should be.
2. Thanks For The Memories, by Cecelia Ahern (Irish, and daughter of former Irish Taoiseach (PM) Bertie Ahern):
It should be noted that I’ve avoided Cecilia Ahern’s books ever since I picked up PS I Love You, read the back, and nearly vomited in Waterstone’s. However, the girl is 26 and has written six best-selling novels, one of which has become a blockbuster movie, so when I read that back of this most recent work and didn’t spew, I thought maybe I could learn something.
Thanks For The Memories is about an Irish woman and an American man, linked in some kind of other-worldly way through blood the man donated, which ended up in the woman’s body. Joyce, the woman, suddenly finds herself an expert on Architecture, speaking Latin and Italian, and having choking fits when Justin eats his steak a bit too quickly. The basic premise interested me at first, but, as I’ve shown, was so overdone and literal that I found myself scoffing aloud and saying ‘oh please!’ far too often.
So the plot was disappointing, but more disappointing was the writing. It wasn’t entirely hopeless, but the grammar left much to be desired and Ms Ahern was obviously lacking a good editor. There were countless paragraphs in which the verb tense switched willy-nilly from past to plu-perfect to past with no logical reason for the shift. I found myself constantly reading aloud to my boyfriend: “Listen to this, no really… does that make ANY sense to you??” He didn’t really care, but he did agree that the writing was bad, and the plot wasn't that interesting, and I should stop reading the book. But I don’t stop once I’ve started, and I managed to finish in two days.
The thing that bugs me most is that Cecelia Ahern is so successful! It fills me with a most unbecoming bitter envy when I look at her young face in her author photo and then read her confusing sentences and mis-conjugation of ‘to lie.’ Gah! And that is all I’ll say about that. But it wasn’t the worst book I’ve ever read.
31 Dream Street, by Lisa Jewell (English):
Now this book I’m not yet finished with. I should finish by the end of today. Unlike the first novel I reviewed, Dream Street isn’t engrossing. That’s not to say it isn’t interesting, only that I don’t have to tear my eyes from the page to greet my boyfriend when he comes home in the evening. But I really like it. The best word I have to describe the way I feel about the novel, characters, and author is ‘affectionate.’ The writing is sufficiently skillful, the characters likable and well-developed, and the plot interesting and varied. But mostly I just feel warm towards the book. I just like it. Not because it’s overly sweet (in fact the observations are sufficiently wry at times), but because…well I don’t know why. But I would recommend it to anyone looking for a light, warmth-inducing read. I’m sorry this review isn’t more articulate, but somehow I find myself unable to think analytically about this book. I just like it!
So there you have it, a brief review of three chick-lit books. I know this has very little to do with body image, but it seems to me that chick-lit is almost as important to women as their bodies... Ok that's a stretch. But anyway I felt the need to get my opinions out there, and now I have! Hope you've enjoyed this installation of the Chick-Lit review.
Comments
You know, you might be interested in some hip-hop novels (or, as it is corn-ally known, lit-hop).
Two books in particular: "Angry Black White Boy" and "The End of the Jews" (which is not actually antisemitic), both by Adam Mansbach. We saw him speak in San Francisco, and they sound very interesting. I'm going to start the first one as soon as I finish "The Haj."
Which should be some time by the end of this decade. Or the next.