Back in April (May?), I won an ARC of Grant Ginder’s The People We Hate at the Wedding as a Goodreads Giveaway. Because I am, as always, somewhat behind in my reading, I didn’t get a chance to read this until a few days ago.
If one only looks at the cover image – the headless figures of a bride and groom atop a wedding cake, you would guess that the novel centers on the a bride, a groom, and preparations for their wedding. You’d be wrong. The groom actually doesn’t figure into the story much at all – The People We Hate at the Wedding centers around the bride, Eloise, her mother, Donna and her half-siblings Paul and Alice in the lead-up to the wedding. Continue reading
I’ve noticed that, other than British authors, I don’t really branch out much to international authors and I’m not entirely sure why.
I’ve hit the biggies – like Conrad, Dostoyevsky, Murakami and so on, but I’ve been trying to remedy that and include more foreign authors in my reading. It’s slow going right now as I keep getting distracted by books I’ve been planning to read by British or American authors (darn you, Donna Tartt!).
I’m not sure what draws my attention from non American/British authors – I suppose that it could be that I perceive that there’s cultural differences that will limit my enjoyment of their styles. In any case, as I’ve said, I’m trying to do better.
I must admit that I’m weary of memoirs.
Celebrity or politicians, okay, I get it. Not so meh. I can understand why they’ve written memoirs, good or not. If you a celebrity or a politician, you’ve actually done something of note. You’ve some combination of talent, luck and drive and most likely, you’ve seen – and probably done – some amazing/terrible/horrifying things. I can see why you’re writing.
Normal folks who’ve just lived through something, though? That I usually roll my eyes at. There’s something about this that annoys me – the idea that you, normal human, have something of note; that you have a story worth telling. We all have a story and the idea that you, normal human, are more capable and deserving than the millions of others with a story to tell makes me laugh.
I mean sure, I could write a memoir of my own, chronicling my own life-long struggle with Major Depressive Disorder, my time as a patient in a psych ward, my two months in intensive outpatient therapy and my (ongoing) recovering. I simply doubt that there’s much about my own story that makes it unique from all the millions of others who’ve had the same experience.
Last summer, I agreed to house/pet sit for one of my mom’s co-workers while she and her family went on a cruise. I had been doing this for years — they paid me, they were easy going and all it really consisted of was bringing in the mail, putting out the trash, watering some plants and feeding the dogs and cat. Nothing too difficult.
About a day or two towards the end, my computer’s charging cord died and I hadn’t yet purchased a new one. Also, I’d finished reading all the books I brought with me. The daughter had left a book downstairs where she’d finished it before rushing out of the door. I wanted to read, so I picked it up.
It was John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars”.
I’d heard of John Green, of course – I’d heard that teens were in love with this guy’s work; that he was some kind of Teenage Girl Whisperer. While I was no longer a teenage girl, I figured I’d give it a try.
I really liked it! It wasn’t high literature, but I enjoyed it.
Since I’d liked Hazel and Gus so much, I’d mentally made a note to read the rest of his work too.
I finally got around to that.
So I just finished “Paper Towns” yesterday. I didn’t really like it.