There’s this sort of subset of literary fiction I like to call “The Fucked Up Family Novel”.
You know what I’m talking about.
It’s those novels that were fucked up family dynamics are the centerpiece. The reasons for and results of those dynamics drives the narration. I’m not talking about the sort of novel that has one character with issues, but the family itself is functional. I’m talking about the sort where the whole family in general is fucked and their lives together are essentially fucked as well.
These sort of novels are my wheelhouse. I am SO down with these. I loved “The Virgin Suicides” and Zoe Heller’s “The Believers”. I loved Meg Mitchell Moore’s “The Admissions.” I live for these stories most likely because I have my own fucked up family and like to feel as if I’m not alone in having messy familial relationships. It feels nice to feel as if you can commiserate with your book, you know? Continue reading