Category: ragdoll reads

#59 – The Year of The Flood

Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood was a slow burn kind of book for me. It took me ages to read, I think I finished five other novels while I was reading this one, but that’s not a comment on how much I enjoyed this book. A companion piece to Oryx and Crake, The Year of the Flood is a wholly satisfying story about a world hit by a waterless flood, and those people within who survive. I may be wrong, but I’d classify the book as speculative fiction — it takes place just far enough in the future to make you second guess how we’re living our lives and treating the earth, but it’s familiar enough not to seem too out there (if that makes any sense).

The novel moves back and forth between life pre- and post-flood. For a time, the main characters, Toby and Ren, one older, one younger, despite the different ways they arrived, live together in the Gardeners commune, where traditional religion that we’d recognize as Western in its influence mixes with holistic approaches to health, the earth, and life. The Gardeners, lead by Adams and Eves, don’t put chemicals in their bodies, they eat food that they grow, and many of them survive the waterless flood because of these skills.

At first, Toby resists the world of the Gardeners. She’s survived this long by going underground, as dangerous as it is, and becoming a part of a community wasn’t something she thought she needed to do. But slowly, as her skills as a naturalist, a healer, a beekeeper both evolve and are discovered, it’s apparent she’s found a place where she can belong — whether or not she wants to become Eve Six.

Ren, however, doesn’t have it so easy. As a young girl, her mother drags her away from her father’s house — safely ensconced in the highly programmed, chemical world — as a result of an affair she has with one of the key Gardener men. She’s a flake, there’s no getting around it, and when the relationship goes sour, Ren’s dragged back into the sterile world of her father’s people, sent off to university at Martha Graham, and then out into the workforce, perhaps not in the job she would have once imagined for herself in high school. High school and the Gardeners define Ren (oh how this happens for so many people, ahem) and without these key people in her life, she’s a little lost, a little heartbroken (over Jimmy, you’d remember him from the previous book — Snowman). But both Toby and Ren are survivors and their stories, when woven together, are equally compelling.

There’s nothing to do but be in awe of Atwood’s imagination. But if I were to make one slight criticism — I wasn’t as inspired by the “poems” that started off each of the Gardener sections — they seemed a bit contrived to me, but then, when you look through a hymn book in church, the sentiment is much the same, so perhaps I should just take them at face value. It’s a sad book, a book that makes you appreciate the fact that you can still put a seed in the ground and have it grow into a plant that could feed you, the birds, and the butterflies. And one that perhaps sets a new standard for saint-like worship of unconventional heroes, especially those that survive.

READING CHALLENGES: The Year of the Flood is my third book in this year’s Canadian Book Challenge.

#56 – #57 Crush It & The Tipping Point

There’s nothing new that I can possibly blog about Malcolm Gladwell‘s The Tipping Point. It’s a book that’s back in the Amazon.ca top 100 today, I’m guessing because of all the Nook news, and it’s simply one of those titles that you imagine everyone to have already reviewed, if not read. So when I was browsing around the Vancouver Public Library sale last Thursday trying to ward off the persistent stomach butterflies (there because of the whole public speaking element to happen the next day; bleech), I was pleased to find a battered copy of The Tipping Point from the Kitsilano Branch for a whopping $0.55.

The central thesis of Gladwell’s book, that little “things” can lead to sweeping change, seemed particularly relevant reading for the days leading up to and passing by Book Camp. The iconic work looks at all of the social conditions that surround a product, event or action “tipping” into an epidemic. From smoking to book sales, the book comes to some pretty cool conclusions about the power of word of mouth. Words that we toss around all the time, like connectors and mavens, this theory of something “tipping” has become part of the everyday business lexicon. And it’s easy to see why.

Gary Vaynerchuk’s Crush It! isn’t as intellectual nor as everlasting as The Tipping Point, but it’s a really good example of putting Malcolm Gladwell’s theories into action. Vaynerchuk grew his business exponentially by investing in his own personal brand, used the “free” tools of the internet to grow it, and then tipped over into the uber-successful range by simply working hard and “crushing it.” It’s a veritable how-to manual for his kind of success and a good handbook for anyone somewhat curious about social media.

I like how both books focus on finding/offering solutions instead of lamenting the demise of the “old” ways of doing business. Vaynerchuk’s work isn’t necessarily innovative; it’s stuff people have been doing on the internet for as long as the web’s been around. But what he managed to achieve goes above and beyond how everyday people use the tools, which is impressive. Also, he’s driven to succeed in ways that, yes I’m going to say it, regular people may not be — he’s a born Salesman, a picture perfect Connector, and proof positive that word of mouth absolutely works to drive community, which in turn drives sales, which in turn allowed his endeavours to tip into an epidemic.

The stickiness of Gladwell’s book versus Vaynerchuk’s can’t really be compared. I dogeared piles of pages of the former and returned my copy to work the morning after I read the latter. One’s a book that would benefit from repeated reads and the other I’d recommend as a handbook to anyone looking to build their brand through social media. All the way through The Tipping Point, I tried to define myself in terms of the different personalities Gladwell presented. All the way through Crush It!, I wondered how much coffee Vaynerchuk must drink in a day to get himself out there to the extent that he does — two very different intellectual exercises on my part.

Regardless, there were lessons from both books that I’d apply to my everyday and my work life.

1. That you need to pull the best, most relevant ideas from everything you read, fiction to non, and everything in between, and apply this learning to your life. Maybe it’s just in the sense that you enjoyed something and want to pass it on, but that your passion, about anything, can be contagious. And that’s not a bad thing.

2. Pay close attention to what goes on around you. You might not think you have anything in common with how “cool” becomes relevant, but within that, you’ll discover what’s authentic and what’s rubbish — especially in areas of your own expertise.

3. Don’t be afraid of people. Or situations. Or of doing things that might make you uncomfortable (read: running a seminar in front a large group of people). Ahem. YES, I realize how ironic this is coming from shy, scaredy-cat me.

4. Read more nonfiction.

5. Getting people excited about reading isn’t just about selling books. For me, it’s about the survival of our culture, whether it’s pop or otherwise, it’s a record of who we are as a people at the time. It’s necessary. It’s important. It’s valuable and it’s a part of our survival. Art matters. Fighting about it won’t get us to our goals any quicker.

#55 – Serena

After being on vacation for almost five days, one would have thought I’d have gotten further through the stack of books I brought with me, bought at the sale at the Vancouver Public Library, and purchased on Granville Island. Not so. I managed to finish Ron Rash’s Serena, and am about halfway through The Tipping Point (and I have read Gary Vaynerchuk’s Crush It!, which is technically #56, but I’m going to talk about it and the Gladwell in the same post).

Annnywaay. This is the first book that I’ve read from American writer Rash, and not to be cliched but it certainly won’t be the last. Set in the Appalachians during the Depression, Serena tells the story of an ambitious lumber baron who marries an enigmatic, determined young woman who changes his life irrevocably. When Pemberton arrives back to the logging settlement with his new wife, Serena, in tow, he’s met at the station by Rachel Harmon and her father. The former there at the behest of her father, out to protect her dignity, as Pemberton has gotten the young girl pregnant.

A fight ensues, and Harmon ends up overpowered by the tall, powerful Pemberton. Estranged from her former lover and about to give birth, Rachel heads back to their cabin to make her way on her own while Pemberton and his new bride are similarly disposed to making their mark on the landscape that surrounds the community of Waynesville. Serena’s driven by money and success. She sees natural resources as simply a means to gain more and more power and status. She’s cold, calculating and focussed. Yet, it’s this focus and intensity that attracted Pemberton to her in the first place. As the relationship grows more complex, their attachment suffers from the stress of her ambition, and the lengths to which she’ll go to achieve her goals. The results are deadly, not just for the trees, but for anyone who might stand in her way — and that includes young Rachel and her little baby boy.

The idea that human beings are inescapably tied to their environment runs throughout the narrative. As Serena destroys the forests, their workers suffer more and more accidents. As they drive further and further to clearcut the entire area of its trees, there’s a movement to create a national park and save the environment. Of course, Serena and Pemberton stand on the side of progress, remark upon the size and structure of the forest in terms of a profit and loss statement. There’s a particularly poignant scene where Pemberton and his wife pose for a photograph in front of a raw, clearcut field proud of their accomplishment. However, what they’ve left behind is a crew of maimed, injured and, in many cases, deceased men who gave their lives for their profit.

The novel truly picks up about two-thirds of the way in. The further Serena will go to get what she wants, the more intriguing and active the story becomes. In some ways, the beginning of the novel is a bit muddled — and there are sections that switch point of view to some of the loggers themselves that I think would have been more effective if they hadn’t the Rosencrantz and Gildenstern-type, Waiting for Godot-esque dialogue that felt a little affected. That said, there’s nothing I like more than a truly intriguing female lead character who refuses to be defined in any true way, and Serena more than fits this bill. Not unlike Catherine Land in Robert Goolrick’s equally excellent A Reliable Wife, Serena’s lack of a moral compass more than makes up for any of the novel’s shortcomings. In parts, especially the more shocking scenes, there were moments that I actually physically gasped over her actions. You can’t ask more from a novel than to that, can you?

There’s a reading group guide, Browse Inside, and a really interesting article Rash wrote for the P.S. section about the interesting places his research took him.

#54 – Mathilda Savitch

I wasn’t expecting to read or even review Mathilda Savitch. But I was lucky enough to interview the author, Victor Lodato, for Experience Toronto, which meant that I obviously had to read the book. So the night before I was furiously (in between a rock show and a houseguest, indeed!) reading as much of the novel as I could while trying to come up with half-way intelligent questions.

“I want to be awful.” Mathilda Savitch declares as the novel opens. She’s ballsy, self-deprecating, intelligent and more than a little odd. In many ways, she’s a semi-typical teenager, but in many ways she’s also not — she’s sharper and has been through something traumatic enough to effect her for the rest of her life. In fact, the tragic death of her sister has marked her entire family: her mother refuses to get dressed, drinks, and acts a little like Mathilda’s not even there; her father’s barely holding the family together. And to make sense of the tragedy, Mathilda acts out in many different ways. It’s a complex thing, finding yourself in the world, being okay with yourself. This act of individuality that’s so much a rite of passage when you’re an almost teenager becomes even more complicated when you add impossible situations to the mix.

Her prepossessed nature questions everything naturally, and this comes through clearly in the story. She’s been damaged by the loss of her sister and needs to work through it — even if the process is destructive to herself, to her family, to her friends. The author, in his interview with me, mentioned that the voice of Mathilda was so strong that he just gave in and let her take him where she wanted to go. As a playwright, Lodato seems comfortable with listening to the voices that invade his head, and it’s truly Mathilda that drives this novel. You can’t seem to get her out of your head, kind of like Owen Meany, she’s that strong of a character. One part Goldengrove and more than one part The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mathilda Savitch also stands on its own simply for this incredible sense of voice.

What a nice surprise.

#53 – Drop City

When I bought my second-hand copy of Drop City by TC Boyle, I knew nothing about the book except for the fact that it’s on the 1001 Books list. My copy cost $3.99 and I bought from a now-defunct bookstore in Stratford, Ontario one snowy winter day my RRHB and I were out exploring my Irish roots in Millbank, Ontario. It was a great day. Then, like so many of my books, it sat on the shelf, and sat on the shelf, and sat on the shelf.

But once I started this book I resented anything taking time away from the reading of it. Drop City provides a refuge for anyone who wants to drop of out of society. A commune on an idyllic plot of land in California where hippies of all sorts call home, Drop City’s inhabitants don’t go for the Man’s version of how they should live their lives. But when he comes calling in the form of an injunction (coupled with some back taxes and compounded by more than one run in with the law), their fearless leader decides that the only free place left on earth is Alaska, and “Let’s go!”

Interspersed within the story of the caravan of hippies abandoning their commune (complete with a few goats strapped to the top of a merry-making old bus), is the other side of “dropping out.” The very real people who already make a life in Alaska by truly living off the land. There are benefits to both ways of life, but to say that the hippies are prepared for the harsh Alaska winter would be an understatement.

Ronnie (aka “Pan”) and Star had travelled across the USA to get to Drop City. They abandoned their education and their livelihoods (she was a teacher) for a chance to live a real life among truly free people. And they do find free love and a free life, if only for a fleeting moment before the reality of life, and their disparate personalities gets in the way of their idealism. Star’s soon left Ronnie behind for Marco, a violent drop out who is on the run from the law and from his entire identity (it seems), who represents a different kind of life and love for her by the time the novel reaches its conclusions.

Interspersed with the idealistic, even indiotic (at times), hippies, are the real societal “drop outs.” The people who live on the cold, permafrost borders of Alaska hunting, trapping and camping in cold wooden houses not meant for much more than a temporary stop along the way. The dramatic difference, not necessarily in idealism, but in common sense, between the Drop City band of ragtag, Ken Kesey-like bus people and the actual Alaskan settlers causes the necessary friction the book needs.

I can’t stress enough how engrossing this novel is from beginning to end. It’s one of those books whose narrative drives along at such a breakneck speed that you barely even register the fact that you’ve already read 150 pages, the sun’s gone down and you’re fingers are freezing from holding the book so tight. T.C. Boyle has a way of slowly building steam that will eventually boil, both within characters and situations, that overshadows the entire work with a sense of forboding. This isn’t a bad thing — it’s more that the novel knows its outcome already and you, as the reader, need to catch up as quickly as possible. Parts of this novel just made me cringe too — the idea of free love equalling the utter objectification of some of the women, that the mother among the bunch openly gives her children acid to prove they’re “turned on,” and the asumption that you can simply head to Alaska with little more than the goats on top of your broken down bus and expect to survive, all of which add to the dramatic tension of the most basic themes found in literature: humanity versus their environment.

I know I say this a lot but the 1001 Books list hasn’t let me down with Drop City. I’d highly recommend it. I’d loan you my copy, but I’m sending it to a friend as we speak.

#52 – Corelli’s Mandolin

Many, many years ago my friend Kathleen handed me a copy of Corelli’s Mandolin and told me I had to read it. It’s a favourite of many friends of ours and it’s been sitting on my shelf for probably close to a decade (wow that’s frightening to admit). I don’t know what made me pick it up a couple weeks ago when I was on my way into the hospital to get a post-surgery check up, but I’m glad I did. It’s a lovely, flawed, novel.

At first, it was hard for me to get into the narrative. Louis de Bernières has an interesting writing style. It’s dense and worthy of your concentrated attention but it’s also whimsical and a little magical (reminding me of Allende and Garcia Marquez). Interspersed with the stories of two of the main characters, father and daughter Iannis and Pelagia, are stories of the Italian dictator, Greece rebels, Italian soldiers (including Antonio Corelli of the aforementioned mandolin), and various other people. It all comes together to create a rich and layered book that presented one of the most gruesome, terrifying portraits of war I’ve ever read. The scenes where Francesco (an Italian soldier) finds himself knee-deep in the fighting were as deeply affecting as Saving Private Ryan was when I watched it for the first time all those years ago.

The love story between Corelli, an Italian invader of the Greek island where Pelagia and her father live, is complicated by her previous relationship to a foolish, troubled boy named Mandras. War also divides them. The impossibility of the situation heightens their emotions but the impossibility of the situation refuses to abait, especially when both Italy and Germany are found to be on losing sides of the war. De Bernières plums the depths of human nature as it relates to society in this novel. It’s always up for discussion, whether it’s men forced to obey the orders of war or of humanity; for women forced into situations because of their gender; for the pressures that social justice sets upon a person, the larger themes to the novel go on and on. And like many novels that explore, these larger philosophical discussions are set against the very real situation of human suffering. Rape, murder, theivery, you name it, people do awful things to one another, but at the same time it’s the idea of love that keeps the idea that there’s a reward to life, even if it takes years to realize.

The end of the novel sort of fell down for me. To discuss it in too much detail would spoil the entire novel, so I’ll just say that it was flat and somewhat cliched, tired and a little bit implausible. Yet, the strength of this book for me was the gruesome, realistic and utterly terrifying sections about the men suffering through the harrowing days of combat. My heart ached for them.

READING CHALLENGES: 1001 Books baby!

#51 – Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

It seems I’m starting every book review off with a confession of sorts. Well, today is no exception. The only reason I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (P+P+Z) was for work — we’ve been running a fun Undeath Match with my friend Dan at Raincoast, which pits our HarperCollins book The Strain against their Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Dan’s taking the side of zombies and I’m defending vampires. So trust that the review I write about P+P+Z here will be a little more balanced than the one I’ll probably post over there.

Let me just say that I enjoyed Seth Grahame-Smith’s literary mash-up more than I thought I would. When the book exploded over the summer, like many other literary snobs, I sort of poo-pooed the whole idea. Who would want to read a ruined version of Austen’s timeless classic? Thousands upon thousands of readers, it turns out, myself included. The novel doesn’t take itself too seriously, it basically follows the plot of the original, and tosses in more than a few awesome (and funny) scenes of Elizabeth battling the “unmentionables” (the zombies) throughout.

For all its clever humour, there is an underlying respect, I hope, for the original text because there’s more of a film adaptation feeling to the book than anything else. Entire sections of dialogue read almost verbatim to the Keira Knightley version (yes, I’ve seen it enough times to know), which sort of made the whole enterprise a little more palatable for me. Grahame-Smith got quite a few things wrong too — the shrill nature of his Mrs. Bennett doesn’t have any of the savvy humour from the original, and Elizabeth seems to share a lot of her inner thoughts in ways that would have made the original Lizzie cringe.

The success of P+P+Z has spawned a sequel, Sense and Sensibility and Sea Creatures, which I probably won’t read only because the original is still on my 1001 Books Challenge (shameful, I know), and I don’t want to ruin the utter perfection of reading a Jane Austen novel along the way. But if you’re looking for a bit of escapist, oddly engaging, and definitely funny words to pass a weekend, I’d recommend the book, even if it’s just for the last fight scene. I’m not going to spoil it, but it’s awesome.

#49 – The Best of Everything

We had some friends from Winnipeg come to stay with us a couple of days ago. It marked another milestone in our house. We finally have an actual spare bedroom with an actual spare bed — a place for guests to rest their weary, travelled heads on comfy pillows and cozy sheets. It’s not that I’m not an adult, but I haven’t felt like one in quite some time living in our cramped, half-used house. But the more rooms that become finished and look beautiful (the living room; the dining room; half of the kitchen), the happier I am that we can use the upstairs for its actual intent.

Okay /tangent.

We all went up to our cottage for an extended long weekend. Happily, I took a few days off because my body still wasn’t ready for a full week of work. I’m not convinced I am even now but again I’m writing in tangents instead of getting to the point. We spent a lovely day at the Petroglyphs Provincial Park, and even went hiking, which utterly killed me. So the following day, when everyone else was boating and cavorting, I sat down inside and out and read Rona Jaffe’s excellent The Best of Everything cover to cover.

The book was first published in 1958, and author Rona Jaffe based it somewhat on her own experiences as a young editor at Fawcett publications. The novel reads like Mad Men, only it’s from the perspective of four different women (somewhat complete with a less suave Don Draper-esque character in the senior editor, Mike Rice) who work at the publishing company. They all start off in the secretarial pool, and some remain there until they get married, then pregnant, and leave the story. While there are many women featured in the novel, there are four whose stories drive the majority of the action. Their stories intersect as their friendships do — sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose — but the skillful nature of Jaffe’s narrative never lets the threads drop that sew the entire story together.

Caroline, a young girl with an ivy league eductation, steps out of the subway from a long commute into Manhattan excited about her first job. She was to have been married to her college sweetheart who, after taking one last hurrah to Europe, found himself walking down the aisle with someone else. A career girl in the making, Caroline soon rises up the ranks to become a junior editor, but the road isn’t easy, and she simply can’t find the same kind of success in her personal life. Being beautiful, smart, and talented means that Caroline questions everything, and her story was the one that I found so heartbreaking by the end.

Then there’s April and Gregg, two aspiring actresses, the former whose wholesome, mid-Western roots don’t necessarily prepare her for the big city, and the latter who can’t help but make disasterous mistakes after she becomes involved with a powerful Broadway producer. The majority of their problems (read: all) come in the form of love affairs. April gets in over her head with a wealthy playboy and Gregg can’t seem to stop herself from troubling behaviour. The fourth and final woman Jaffe centres the novel around, Barbara, is a divorcee with a young child. She works hard to support her mother and her daughter, and struggles with the societal implications of divorce in the 1950s.

They are all flawed, fascinating and forgiving characters. They are women who search for meaning in a world where they’re just trying to find their footing. All four of them exist somewhat outside the “normal” women who sit beside them planning their weddings and having babies, even if that’s eventually what happens in their lives. The Best of Everything reminded me in tone and storytelling of Revolutionary Road, even of Jaffe’s not as exacting as Yates remains in his prose. It’s a product of its time, surely, so a realistic picture of the concerns of women from the time period, but the themes are so universal. Women dealing with sexual abuse, women defining themselves in the work place against men, women coping with the expectations of a relationship, love, and life. I can’t put into words what kind of an effect the novel had upon me — I just couldn’t put it down until I got to the very end, and even then, I didn’t want it to be over.

There’s a comparison to it being a kind of pre-Sex and the City. But I think that’s a glib comparison, more of a marketing pitch than a thoughtful critique. Sure there are similiarities that can’t be ignored in terms of their gender, and even their personalities, but these four women are compelling because they exist within these pages. They’re not driven by the weekly melodrama of a half-hour television series. They’re broken in ways that can’t be fixed. They’re complex in ways that can’t be quipped. And they have stayed in my mind, especially Caroline, since I finished reading.

Highly recommended. Thanks to Rachel again for telling me about this novel. Again, she’s a gem.

#48 – Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

Sometimes, you need a little lightness in your life. After a hard summer and an even harder year, I’m happy to say that there are a couple of things I’ve watched and read over the last couple weeks that just make me smile. Glee (Freaks and Geeks meets Fame meets Election) equals bliss and belly laughs, but it’s only one once a week. So over the last few weeks I was reading Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day only at the cottage and only before I went to sleep just to make it last that little bit longer.

I adored this novel.

Miss Pettigrew finds herself on Delysia Lafosse’s doorstep after a particularly trying last assignment as a governess. In fact, Miss Pettigrew has found herself sent off on a number of trying assignments as she attempts to make her way in the world. Plain (by her own standards), practical, and quite downtrodden, if this job doesn’t work out, Miss Pettigrew will find herself out on the streets. Only when Miss Lafosse opens up the door to usher Miss Pettigrew inside, there’s been a mixup — she’s not there to take care of any children but be a maid (of sorts) for the vivacious young actress/singer who finds herself in quite a pickle when it comes to her love life.

Over the course of the day Miss Pettigrew fixes, fiddles, meddles and generally makes herself indispensible to Delysia and her group of friends. She puts love affairs right, makes sure Miss Lafosse flies in the right direction and even spares some fun for herself. As the minutes and hours tick by, Miss Pettigrew evolves from the unconfident, unhappy, unsuccessful governess into a bright, witty, attractive woman who remains in charge of her station in life. It’s a simple Cinderella story in a way — but that doesn’t take away from the charm and utter bliss of this book.

When I was reading a little about the author, Winifred Watson, I learned that she wrote the majority of her first novel while working in an office as a sectretary. Her first books had darker themes and when she submitted Miss Pettigrew, her publisher rejected it (Lionel Shriver can relate). It’s a familiar story — publishers and agents rejecting books that find resonance, win prizes and get made into equally delightful Hollywood films (yes; I’ve seen the film version that starts Francis McDormand and Amy Adams). I’m so pleased that Persephone exists and a little ashamed that this is the first of their novels that I’ve read. It certainly won’t be the last.

READING CHALLENGES: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is one of the 1001 Books to Read Before You Die, and while I did actually buy it vs pull it off my shelf, I’m counting it anyway. Also, high props to Rachel for recommending it to me. She’s a gem.

#45 – The Last Summer (of You & Me)

Before I review Ann Brashares first adult novel (she’s the author of the uber-lovely Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series), I’m going to make a confession. This book made me cry. Big, crocodile tears that caused my RRHB to put his hand on my shoulder and ask if I was okay as I was reading in bed. I was sobbing. Sniffling, snorting, bawling. Except I’m not really sure why. For the most part, the novel itself was utterly predictable, the characters were a little one-dimensional, and the story never truly resonates like her previous series.

Two sisters, Alice and Riley, have spent their summers (for their entire lives) on a tiny island off the coast of New York. Fire Island might be where they spend the warm months but for Riley and Alice, like so many Canadian kids who grew up at cottages (like me), it’s where their whole world starts and ends. Their collective best friend Paul (he’s Riley’s age; Alice is younger) lives next door. He’s slightly troubled with a crazy mother, a pile of money from his rich grandparents, and a heart that seemingly always lands in the right place. So when Paul comes back to the island to spend the summer after he’s finished university, everything changes. And the relationship between the three of them will never be the same again when the cold weather rolls in.

But it’s not just growing up that changes their relationship, it’s tragedy. Unpredictable, yet honestly a little too twee, the plot feels too contrived to make a great impact on me as a reader. Even if Brashares can write emotion like few others, the novel doesn’t feel adult, it still feels on the cusp of YA. It has predictable situations that are written with deep feeling and characters who wear their hearts on their sleeves only after a little prodding. Alice and Riley, despite their differences, felt a little too much like characters, if that makes any sense. They’re too polar opposite, trying too hard to be “distinct,” and, in ways, just a little too perfect despite everything that happens to them. There’s everything and the kitchen sink in this novel, issue piled upon issue, so you feel a little like you’re watching a movie of the week. 

It might seem like I’m being overly critical. Maybe I am. Yet, despite all of my criticisms, let me just say again, when it came to the tragic bits, I ended up with giant, salty tears falling down my sweet cheeks. Now that’s got to count for something.