best friends forever: a book club review

You know how sometimes you just want to hunker down with a meal of comfort food - something fairly quick and simple, something likely high carb that you know isn't really great for you, but it's just once in a while so you go for it. You know how you dig in, scarf it down in an unstoppable flash, then look around, wonder where it all went and why you couldn't stop, and maybe suffer just a little indigestion? For me, that was reading Best Friends Forever, my first Jennifer Weiner novel. 

I'm familiar with Jennifer Weiner mostly from twitter, where she is frequently to be found defending her works and that of other female writers against such slanderous labels as 'writers of chick lit.' I like her - she's clever and articulate and accessible. She is, despite her live tweeting of The Bachelor, a fairly consistent feminist - in her words, an "unlikely feminist enforcer." Her name kept popping up, though I was not, I thought, familiar with her writing.

Once I started poking around I realized she has quite a sizable body of work, including In Her Shoes which was made into a chick flick starring Toni Colette and Cameron Dias. Oh, maybe if her books aren't supposed to be chick lit, then the movie shouldn't be a chick flick. Yes, the label can be dismissive and reductive, but it is not always derogatory, and Lord KNOWS I do not want to be on the receiving end of Weiner's wrath, but if this isn't chick lit I don't know what to call it. 

Weiner argues that because the central relationships of her heroines' stories are generally between two women - mothers and daughters, sisters, friends - that her stories are substantially different from 'chick lit.' Given that test, Sex and the City is not chick fiction. However, if Best Friends Forever is representative, the central relationship is still just a stage on which to act out the usual female concerns of chick lit, namely finding/keeping a man, body image/being typically attractive, being a good daughter/sister/mother/lover. The happy ending still has to happen, and it's still measured by the standard yard stick. 

The other assertion I've read is that because Weiner addresses difficult subjects and includes darkness in her stories (in this case rape, infertility, revenge, bullying, loss through death and injury, and child hood neglect are all plot points, though never exactly themes)  her stories are more than 'chick lit.' I'll be honest though, the first hint of queasiness I experienced in reading this book was a  passing minimization of domestic violence (which obviously doesn't sit well with me), and from there I was on the alert. Instead of being fully in the story, I had pulled back into evaluating. A willingness to mention heavy subjects is one thing; actually dealing with them head on takes a fortitude that didn't show in this story. 

There's a library's worth of conversation in all of this: How/why do we sort books or movies or music into genres? Does art have a higher moral obligation than simply to delight and entertain? Should stories by female writers be judged on different standards than stories by male writers? Do feminist writers have a duty to deeply explore feminist themes? They are conversations Weiner is actively engaged in, and yet ... I am not fully reassured. 

The truth is, I devoured this story. I bought it on a Thursday and finished it by Sunday morning. I read late into the night and giggled and sighed. I also scowled. I was fully invested in the heroine Addie Downs - recovering fatty, tender-hearted, loving, loyal and good. She was a little too good, but she was still identifiable. I wanted to love the friendship between her and the oh so much less lovable Valerie, her lost and found best friend. I believed the ugliness of the high school bullies, the floundering love of the various parents in the story. I wished I was with Shiney to talk about what we've experienced in our 40+ year best friendship, in our families, in our personal tragedies, in my struggles with my weight. There is humanity in this story. But there is also some skirting of serious issues that left me with ... indigestion. Not every novel needs to be the one of the over-wrought tragedies beloved by Oprah and her book club, but not every laugh can be one of discomfort. I'm fine with fluff. And I'm fine with the tough stuff. I'm not fine with treating the tough stuff like fluff. 

Read Best Friends Forever - definitely read it. Maybe with a bag of chocolate covered almonds and a big glass of a fat red wine beside you. But read it with questions in your mind, with an awareness of what truly matters, and an understanding that a good story is one thing, but a story with value is something more.

* By the way, I've mentioned before that when I read I do it with an eye to learning about writing. At the end of the edition of Best Friends Forever that I read, there was an author's interview with Jennifer Weiner. One of the questions was about the role of the protagonist and his relative importance to the story. In her answer, Weiner revealed that there had been six drafts of the story - some VASTLY different from the final version. I learned so much from that one answer: writing takes real work and commitment. The first draft is not the final story. Let the characters grow and change. Be open to feedback and revision. And write write write. 

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The best part of book club is book club. As much as I LOVE reading, reading and then discussing the books with a group of intelligent, funny, diverse women is a hundred times better.

It was such a relief to be among the ladies again tonight, to be settled into comfortable furniture, eating delicious food, drinking our wine, and sharing our thoughts. Tonight dinner was drawn from the 'single woman' theme of the book and so included popcorn and a cheese plate and ice cream - and of course the wine. But the main course - a fabulous dish-your-own Glory Bowl a la 'Whitewater Cooks' was simultaneously satisfying and comforting and nourishing. It had whatever ingredient the book was missing. 

As one would expect in a meeting of 7 women, there were those of us tonight who have had personal experiences with some of the tougher issues mentioned in the book. I take it as a great sign of our growth as a club that everyone present was comfortable sharing about those experiences, and an even greater sign that the listeners were grateful for being shared with.

This is what women's relationships really look like, for me. Being honest. Laughing. Talking about things that have happened. Hearing each other, being moved, and moving on. I was reminded as I drove home - filled up with friendship and appreciation for the ladies - just how very much female friendships mean to me, and just how terrible I am at being the one to keep them alive. 

the fault in our stars: a review

"Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death."

So begins John Green's novel The Fault in our Stars, and so begins my enthrallment with Hazel Grace Lancaster, Augustus Waters, the author John Green, and the whole sweet tragic violent comic tale.

John Green was unknown to me until STG introduced me to him as one half of the Vlog Brothers - one of the many YouTube channels STG follows. Ya ya, a vlogger (snickerYouTubeFamoussnicker) who writes, I thought. That doesn't make him a real writer, I thought. I'm sure his books only sell to the geeks (the Vlog Brothers inspire an army called 'nerdfighters' - I'm not kidding) who follow him on YouTube and Twitter, I thought. 

And then The Fault in Our Stars was published, and got rave reviews, and debuted at #1 on the New York Times bestseller list for children's chapter books (more on that in a minute), and has stayed on the list for 62 weeks thus far. Nerdfighters can't account for that; incredible writing, taut story-telling, recognizable characters you want to cheer for, and a brilliant turn of phrase can't even account for that. The Fault in Our Stars is one of those rare books that combines all the things you look for, and something more - or in this case several somethings more - that elevate it into ... a lesson free from pedantry, a fable without moral, a melody you can't quite place but want to hum along to. It's the kind of book that gets re-read and cherished. 

The Fault in Our Stars is classified as a young adult novel, but it's so much more than the silly label applied for the convenience of marketers and librarians. I enjoy young adult novels that don't speak down to or preach at their audience. I loved the Hunger Games trilogy, still enjoy rereading some of the stories of my youth, and don't consider the YA label a reason not to consider a read. However, I will admit that I rarely expect them to encourage me to consider things newly, to present ontological and philosophical puzzles to ponder, and to send me to the dictionary to clarify vocabulary. The Fault in Our Stars did all of that while remaining utterly accessible and readable. 

For those of you wondering just what the book is about, the first-person narrator Hazel is the star of the show, living with incurable cancer and falling in love for the first (only?) time. Hazel's sweetheart Augustus (Gus) is a heartthrob who lost a leg to cancer. Cancer is appropriately inescapable throughout the story. While all Hazel, Gus and their friends want is to be normal children, they know that can never be. Once a cancer diagnosis is delivered, life is never the same. So they joke about the 'cancer perks' that come with being visibly ill, tease each other about their particular physical limitations, preserve what dignity they can. And, they are teenagers. They want freedom from their parents, except when they don't; they want to borrow the car; they explore their sexuality; they make snarky, funny, borderline inappropriate comments. I don't want to talk about the plot - it's a short novel packed with movement with exquisite pacing I have no interest in undermining. 

One caveat: John Green does not shy away from the 'civil war' that is cancer attacking the body it feeds on. Cancer is completely invasive in a body and in this novel - the story wouldn't exist without it. I recognized in his writing some of the moments I witnessed in supporting a friend as she died of cancer - her wish that people would talk to her about something else, how determined she was to preserve her curly red hair, how annoyed she was her last Christmas to only receive pyjamas as gifts, the battle to be more than her diagnosis in the eyes of her friends and family. I watched and listened and helped her plan her funeral. But I have not faced cancer as a mother, or as a daughter, or as a lover. I found Green's handling of it honest and appropriate, but for those people who have had cancer attack even closer to home, it might be a difficult read.

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let's talk

"Let's talk" - it's an interesting phrase. On Bell Let's Talk day, it's an invitation, a movement, a corporately sponsored conversation. But there's another reading - it can also be an enreaty: "Let us talk - oh lord, please let us talk!" Let those of us with the lived experience of mental illness share that experience. Let us tell our stories not for sympathy or attention but just because they are our stories. Because we have the right to be heard. Let us educate you. And let us move forward without pretending. 

I remember a conversation with my dear grandma probably 15 years ago. She was talking about a close friend of hers, a neighbour in her seniors' condo complex, who had been hospitalized because her depression was threatening her life.

This friend did not like to take her medication. Apparently, she didn't know that you can keep working with your doctors until you find a medicine that works for you. Apparently, her depression convinced her not to be a bother, not to fight, or whatever other lie it needed to tell her. Regardless, the friend had ended up in the hospital. 

When my grandma thought things were ridiculous, she had a tendency to become a bit irate. She did not suffer fools. So as she told me about her concern for her friend, she started to get that tone in her voice - that tone that says that behind these words, I think my dear friend is being a bit of an idiot. Finally she said, "it's so stupid; if she had diabetes she would take her insulin and not be embarrassed. This shouldn't be any different. Just accept that you need the medicine for the rest of your life and take it!" 

Her saying that made all the difference for me. It gave me space to accept medicine as one tool that helps me when I need it. I have a pretty full tool belt - counselling, knowledge, books, a support system. And yet, sometimes, that most important tool - the right to speak freely and without shame about my and my son's experience is harder to come by. People don't want to know. It's inappropriate. The subject must be changed. 

It all makes me feel a little ... rebellious. I think maybe I don't want to be shushed. Maybe the problem is not so much my speaking, as the listener's discomfort. And maybe if they listened more they'd get over that. And maybe the more people who hear me speak, the more people who will feel free to tell their stories as well. 

Always Looking Up, Adventures of an Incurable Optimist: a book club review

Despite my bias against short men I have had a long and pleasant mini-crush on Michael J. Fox - Alex P. Keaton; Marty McFly ... what warm-blooded teenage girl of the 80's didn't love the little guy? So, I was pretty thrilled when his 2008 book Always Looking Up: Adventures of an Incurable Optimist came up on our book club list for this month. I had my doubts, to be sure. A cutesie-pie high school drop-out celebrity writing an intelligent book? 

I was wrong to doubt. Michael J. Fox is beyond intelligent. He's thoughtful, articulate, wise, compassionate and, most of all, optimistic. He's also laugh out loud funny and clever on many levels. Just look at the title - it includes a short joke and a reference to the incurable disease that is slowly claiming his body, yet it gives a clear and accurate sense of what the book is about - optimism, faith, and hope. 

This is not Fox's first biography, if biography is the right term for it. Apparently his first book, Lucky Man, is more of a traditional biography that outlines Fox's life chronologically up to 2001. In Always Looking Up Fox focuses not on chronology but on four main themes that he says have supported his positive outlook on life: work, politics, faith and family. It makes for engaging and inspiring reading. 

I did get a little hung up now and then on Fox's frequent mentions of other celebrities. It would be easy to see some of the references as name-dropping, until you remember that this is just the water he swims in. Robin Williams, Lance Armstrong, Ryan Reynolds, Usher, Meg Ryan - they are mentioned not for their star power but for their relevance: help with establishing & active support of the Michael J. Fox Foundation. Genuine and long-standing friendships. Family relationships. Neighbours in their tony Manhattan neighbourhood. I realised somewhere in the reading that it wouldn't make sense if these other celebrities didn't populate their lives.

What is obvious throughout the book is how essential that fourth pillar of Fox's life, his family, really is. They are last because they are the most important. His Canadian family of origin is still clearly connected, grounding and cherished. His wife of 25 years Tracey Pollan, though so much of their marriage has been shadowed first by Fox's alcoholism and quickly thereafter by his Parkinson's diagnosis, yet clearly is the kind of partnership we could all wish for. There is no doubting that Fox was blessed in his choice of a partner, and that he knows that. Their four beloved children, while well spaced out, seem to be consciously planned, very much wanted, and as normal as offspring raised in those circumstances could be.

I expected to read this and feel somehow less - like I should be more optimistic and more grateful that I haven't faced his challenges. I expected to be challenged as well as inspired. In the end, there was none of the former and less of the latter than I expected. I am inspired, but not in a revival camp sort of way. More like sitting by the sea and remembering and dreaming. It should be required reading for human being.

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Our first book club meeting of 2014 felt like it was a long time in coming, perhaps because our December meeting was earlier in the month than usual. It was so great to see the ladies again, to be welcomed into a new home, served a fabulous dinner, and be surrounded by great conversation. I was feeling distracted and somewhat quiet (for me) tonight, and it was so nice to be allowed to just be wherever I was. 

For some reason, this book was more divisive than any previous option. I loved it so much that I was shocked when the room was evenly split on liked/didn't like. What I really love about book club though is that in all that conversation - which ranged from Lance Armstrong good or evil to Jewish heritage/culture/religion - no one took anything personally. 

I will admit that what I really wanted tonight was to be secreted away somewhere with a bosom friend having a heart to heart and a good cry and drinking until I stopped aching. This was better.

By the way, I brought dessert tonight (while everyone tries to cook gluten free, I figure if I bring dessert I know that for sure I can eat that. Miss out on salad, no problem. Miss out on dessert? I don't think so!). We also happen to have a member who avoids dairy and egg, so there was an added challenge for dessert. I was a bit stumped, and then I remembered Wacky Cake. 

This cake was comfort food for me when I was growing up, and one of the first things I ever learned to bake. I love it warm and spread with butter, but iced is good to. To class it up a little for tonight I made almond brittle, then crushed it and added it to the buttercream. Wacky Cake just happens to be dairy and egg free, and I made it gluten free using Robin Hood gluten free flour and xanthan gum. The ladies liked the cake so well they asked for the recipe, and I figured if I post the recipe here then I'll get at least 5 clicks on this post. ;-) 

Wacky Cake

1 1/2 C. flour                                 1 C. sugar
4 T. cocoa                                     1 T. vinegar
1 tsp. baking powder                     1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. baking soda                          5 T. vegetable oil
1/2 tsp. salt                                    1 C. warm water

Preheat oven to 325 F.
Lightly grease 8 x 8 pan.
Sift dry ingredients together into pan.
Make 3 evenly spaced holes in the dry mix.
Pour oil in one hole, vanilla in the second, and vinegar in the third.
Pour water over top and stir well (be sure to scrape the sides and corners to get all dry ingredients mixed in).
Bake 45-50 minutes. 

i dreamed of africa - review

I suppose in some circles, I Dreamed of Africa is a modern classic. Perhaps that's simply because a (truly terrible) movie was inspired by the book in 2000. I had forgotten about the movie when I received the book at my book club's Christmas gift exchange, and was just excited to read an autobiography of a woman who, like me, dreamed of living in Africa and, unlike me, made that dream come true. In fact, when I started reading the book I was so excited about it that I wrote a preview, something I've never done before. 

I enjoyed the book enough to pass it on today, but it was not without issues. The writer, Kuki Gallmann, grew up in Italy dreaming of Africa, and eventually moved to Kenya with her young son and second husband. Things happen (it would be hard to mention any plot points without spoiling the story, though Gallmann is really the queen of the spoilers in the story) and she continually dusts herself off, take a philosophical stance, and moves forward. I read autobiographies with a touch of disbelief at the best of times, but Gallmann's memories of her own response to unspeakable loss are really tough to take. Her children are perfect; her husband is perfect; her friends are perfect; her lovers are perfect; she is perfect. It's all a bit ... tiresome. 

Gallmann is a fine, poetic writer for whom English is clearly a second language. It's not that her English is flawed - the impression is more that it's a little too studied. Like her attempts at philosophy and her characters, the language tries too hard. While she has a mastery of image, those images lose their impact in their studiousness. It's like watching someone play a piano with technical precision but no passion. 

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My biggest issue, as I suspected it might be going in, was the author's seeming unawareness of the impact of Europeans on the health, happiness, ecology and quality of life of Africans. Yes, there is a complex and violent history between the many peoples of Africa. Yes, colonization brought progress (though I struggle to put aside my questions about how much of a benefit that is). Yes, even Gallmann herself eventually became a major player in the conservation of the flora and fauna of the area around her considerable ranch. But she seems to be completely devoid of any self-awareness - the story takes place largely in the 1980's, and yet if I Dreamed of Africa was all you had to go on, you might be lead to believe that Europeans were still in charge in Kenya although it had been an independent republic for 20 years.

While Gallmann is frequently on her remote ranch with little other adult company, the adults who surround her are clearly no more friends than the animals on the farm. In fact, they are less intimately related to than the dogs. In one late scene Gallmann and her young daughter are honoured by the warriors of a nearby Pokot clan. On noticing that she and her daughter are the only women present, Gallmann surmises, "Our European origin, my status as guardian of this land, gave us, I supposed, the status of men." I could write a thesis on everything that is galling in that statement.

You might be wondering at this point if I actually enjoyed this book. I did. Although it was emotionally flat and culturally awkward, my long love of Africa and my fascination in particular with Kenya kept me reading. I also freely acknowledge that Kuki Gallmann and her daughter have done incredible things for Kenya. She transformed her 100,000 acre ranch into a nature conservancy that also supports regional peace, the sharing of ethnobotany knowledge, and archeological research. If I could go to Kenya and work for the foundation and conservancy, it would be amazing. But that doesn't diminish the issues in the reading.

I liked the book. I just wish I could have liked it more - to have felt the story, to have learned something new, to have been somehow invested in the outcome.