Book Review: "Sleep Before Evening" by Magdalena Ball

Maggie Ball is a guest poster on this site, and I hope she noticed the hazing that our colleague Craig Alan Williamson got on these pages for his “college comedy.” Welcome to the boys’ club, Maggie. But we were expecting you to bring the fun and games. Instead, we get grief, from a woman who is both a looker and a thinker.

Chick lit, it’s not, convenient as that would have been for the sake of contrast to the boychik variety. No, what we have here is a full-on rush of ambitious literary fiction. That it largely succeeds as such is no consolation to horny but bookish males hoping for a bit of fluff or a few chuckles while killing time in the airport departure lounge.

Her central character, seventeen-year-old Marianne Cotton, doesn’t have a problem—she has onion-like layers of them—each drawing its quota of weeping as it is rudely stripped off to reveal more of the same beneath. And she seemed like such a nice, bright girl from the burbs, most likely to succeed, even if she’s headed for the success-starved achievements of the liberal arts.

It all starts when Marianne’s godlike grandfather, who is her chess master and father-substitute, croaks. No clean death, this. He suffers a devastating stroke (as she watches) and lingers on painlessly (for him) until his tormented daughter (Marianne’s mother Lily) decides to pull the plug. Except she doesn’t bother to ask Marianne. That’s major life crisis number one (unless you count the time her natural father took a hike when she was three).

To this point, Marianne has been an A-student out on politely competitive Long Island, bound for NYU with a scholarship and earnest plans to major in music. (Grandpa was fond of quoting Wittgenstein to her, so we guess she will also minor in philosophy with no strain.)

Propelled by her grief over the loss of the only sane man in her life, Marianne goes into socioeconomic free-fall. It seems all she has to do is set foot on the Long Island Railroad and inevitably she’s spiraling down into the rock music and drug culture of lower Manhattan. A creepy-sexy harmonica player named Miles is her undoing, and he does a helluva job, deflowering her and getting her hooked on horse, not necessarily in that order (or maybe simultaneously—she doesn’t seem to notice or care).

Life as a junkie and a wannabe groupie isn’t glamorous or fun, although at times Marianne seems to think it’s all she deserves. She delights in high-life sex with Miles, although unfortunately for voyeuristic male readers, we have to take her word for it—there’s no graphic content here.

What follows for much of the book is a whipsawing of agony and ecstasy as Marianne struggles to scrape up enough cash to cop and occasionally also eat. Bukowski comes to mind—no glamorous existence there, either. (Some practitioners of fratire don’t seem to grasp this, fascinated as they seem to be with the puke on their own shoes. Ah, well.)

Oh, it’s an artful whipsawing, in that the narrative respects the rhythms of the reader’s expectations. Just when we think Marianne will get smart and win back some self respect, she gets knocked down, someone dies, she gets a bad dose, she catches her boyfriend in flagrante with the band hag, and so on. (Fiction isn’t life. In its contrived worlds, as in the movies, people rise, suffer, and die on cue, even to a beat. It has to be that way—art is artifice, after all.)

Just when Marianne has been beaten to a bloody pulp, she winds up in rehab, and there begins the arduous climb back toward reconciliation with her mother and the middle class. Late in the book as she starts to spill it in psychotherapy, we begin to appreciate (as she does) what precipitated her fall. Up until now, she’s blamed the inept other men in her life—her father and her mother’s subsequent string of loser lovers, along with the infamous Miles and an all-male cast of criminals, dope dealers, and sleazy employers.

But here comes the epiphany: All along she’s been disappointed by the lack of love and attention from her mother, a self-absorbed painter with a manic-depressive lifestyle. Marianne’s image of herself has been reflected through her mother’s neuroses, and they both have to get through, and past, that core issue.

So, relax, guys. You may be crass, sleazy, opportunistic, and inept. But you’re not at fault.

This time, you'll have to let the women work it out.

Guest Post: Maggie Ball's Rollo

Rollo gets both barrels full in the face on The Compulsive Reader site.

Magdalena Ball is a frequent guest of the boychik and the author of Sleep Before Evening.

Kindle the Yule Log and Ignite Rollo's e-Life!

I notice that Amazon.com has released a Kindle version of My Inflatable Friend, something that I did not expect but am thrilled to see. It's lonely on the bleeding edge, but hey. I have often said (and written in various blog posts) that an iPod for books is long overdue. And I don't mean as a replacement for the sweet smell of paper and ink, either. But it's sure to be a real boon to students or travelers who hate lugging backpacks full of textbooks or guidebooks. So that's ease of storage, for starters, something iPod users now take for granted.

Not to mention that e-books are also much cheaper and easier to obtain than traditional books. Many is the time I've departed for a business trip and searched in vain at the airport bookstore (or not had the time to browse) for something to read. With that Kindle wi-fi link (Whispernet, they call it), I stand to be instantly gratified (at least, to the extent that any reading material can satisfy my longings).

However, I don't own a Kindle yet (are you listening, Santa?). So I'm really curious how my product looks, displayed on theirs.

So I will offer a NOT INCONSIDERABLE PRIZE of Rollo Hemphill memorabilia -- personalized and shipped to you promptly at my expense -- to the first person who e-mails me at mailto:inflatable@lapuerta.tv that you've downloaded Rollo's adventure onto your new Kindle.

Come now -- you don't want him to unwrap his new Kindle only to find Merriam Webster inside!



Kindle Version ASIN:B000NY14KI My Inflatable Friend: The Confessions of Rollo Hemphill

Book Review: "Topaz Woman" by Christine Candland

I'm naturally curious about genre fiction of all kinds, especially if it involves power struggles between the sexes. From the title and the blurb, I expected Topaz Woman to be an updated Romancing the Stone. It is that (the jeweled centerpiece, let's say), but its plot is actually a string of genre pieces, each rendered with Christine Candland's unique wit and style.

We begin in a fearsome jungle -- Hollywood -- where we get an insider's view of studio grinders. We fear for main character Cassie, an English major just off the bus. But in Candland's steely take, the young woman is neither star-struck nor naive. She knows what she wants and she's willing to work relentlessly and patiently. But independent of mind as she is, Cassie can't help but fall for the guy with True Grit, godlike director Jeff McConnell, who literally rides a tall horse, keeps his hurts to himself, and glares meaningfully as a substitute for dialogue. But it's not to be, or not right away.

We segue from Day of the Locust to The Devil Wears Prada as Cassie must cope with the female studio exec from Hell. Then, with both the career and the love plots suddenly in suspense, we find ourselves in the real jungle of Brazil researching a romance about some rare stones. Another handy, helpful guy (named Bill Cody with unexplained irony) figures in this subplot, but not too much, just long enough to convince us that independent-minded Cassie is never outside the gravitational pull of a male, even if she doesn't always let herself be drawn in. Then back to Hollywood and the rest is her-story.

This book clarified something for me about chick lit and about the legacy of Jane Austen. Today's circumstances and social structure are undeniably different -- but the ultimate goal remains chillingly the same: The clever, resourceful female -- who is portrayed as (and may well be) smarter and more cunning than her male counterparts -- still regards herself as lost in polite society unless she's the better half of a power couple! Brava to Candland for her commentary on sexual politics, and here's expecting Cassie's next exploit could take her into uncharted waters...

Guest Post: Craig Alan Williamson reviews "My Inflatable Friend"

Rollo Hemphill is an ex-con slacker whose only pleasures in life are joy-riding unaffordable cars and dream-riding unobtainable women. Hotel beautician, Felicia, is the prime object of Rollo’s affections, but how is a lowly hotel parking valet supposed to garner her smouldering attention? Jealousy always seems to do the trick in these situations, so step forth the bronzed, brash, boobylicious beauty that is soap queen Monica LaMonica. Of course, Ms. LaMonica would not give Rollo the time of day, but can Rollo seal the deal with her life-sized synthetic body double?

The premise of this novel is full of potential and in the main it has been very well executed. Although the back story takes a little too long to establish itself, the concept of the novel as a written confession is implemented well. Another clever invention is the way that Jones intersperses Rollo’s confessions with occasional chapters from his parole officer – this provides another perspective on the story and really helps to keep the plot intrigue ticking away nicely. The pace quickens when the inflatable doll capers commence in earnest, and the story builds to a worthy climax with a string of unexpected turns.

Jones has succeeded in taking one simple, yet original, idea and expanding it into a creditable novel. While the laughs may be spread a little too thinly for ‘My Inflatable Friend’ to be classed as an out-and-out comedy, it certainly packs enough mystery, intrigue and anticipation to keep any reader thoroughly entertained.

Craig Alan Williamson is the author of college comedy novel ‘A Foreign Education’. Download an exclusive preview at www.CraigAlanWilliamson.com

Guest Post: Lad Lit vs. Chick Lit

Can debauchery ever be as marketable as romance?

Chick Lit
– a well established genre of writing, usually written by women for women and dealing with issues such as fashion, shopping and men. The female lead character, always good looking but she rarely knows it, stumbles from one no-good guy to another, before falling madly in love with Mr Perfect. Mr Perfect proves stubborn at first, but then comes to his senses, sweeps the girl off her feet and takes her for a romantic weekend in Paris aboard his private jet where he proposes mid-orgasm while conceiving their first set of triplets.

Lad Lit
aka Boychik Lit, Guy Lit, Dick Lit, or Fratire
– a new breed of novel, usually written by men for men and dealing with issues such as drinking, vomiting, and sex. The male lead, never good looking and he always knows it, stalks one unobtainable girl after another, before falling madly in love with a keg of beer and numbing his pain on a nightly basis. Just when all hope seems lost, he finally finds a girl who will drop her knickers in his presence and wipe the crusting vomit from his face in the morning. His life is complete.

With the definitions out of the way, we can now get down to the nitty-gritty. Let us first consider the market appeal of each of these species of book. More women read novels than men, due no doubt to their inherent capacity to multi-task. Women are freely able to read books whilst simultaneously performing activities such as bossing men around, telling men they have small penises, chatting about loser-men to their girlfriends, and boasting about how much better they are at multi-tasking than men. Being aimed at women, Chick Lit therefore clearly has the advantage in market appeal. This is particularly true as men are too busy playing video games and browsing ever more depraved pornography to even consider picking up a Lad Lit novel.

Maybe, then, we should consider the potential for multi-million dollar movie spin-offs. While gross-out comedies clearly have their place in the market, their box office pull is dwarfed by that of the chick flick. It’s not too difficult to drill down and analyse the reasons for this, which all revolve around the fact that men need sex more than women. You see, men are so desperate for a good dose of sweet lovin’ that they will happily endure another vomit-inducing Anne Hathaway movie on a Friday night. They will even put up with a tortuous 4 hour Legally Blonde DVD marathon if there is the merest sniff of some panty action to be found at the end of the night. Women, on the other hand, would much rather go without sausage for eternity than watch a Will Ferrell film or yet another sequel to American Pie.

So should Lad Lit authors resign themselves to the fact that there just isn’t the market out there to sustain a living from their smut-filled pages? Yes, we should. But in the absence of that kind of common sense, we should instead focus on making our work more chick-friendly. Love, romance and premenstrual should no longer be regarded as dirty words, and women should no longer be treated as slabs of meat to be rated, ridiculed and drooled over. Well, at least not on even and odd numbered pages. This is a new world order, where proud owners of titties and todgers are all welcome to enjoy the delights of the modern Lad Lit novel.

Craig Alan Williamson is the author of the chick-friendly Lad Lit college comedy novel ‘A Foreign Education’. He welcomes all sexes to sample the opening chapter of his book at www.CraigAlanWilliamson.com or buy the paperback from Amazon using the links below.

  

Book Review: "A Foreign Education"

Fellow fratirist Craig Alan Williamson has joined this little community of bloggers on lad lit, and his hazing includes a playful poke inside his new campus-comedy novel. The title would suggest it's aimed at an audience of Brits like himself, since goings-on at the University of Colorado would hardly be considered foreign to Yanks. (Someone should explain to Craig that Americans don't "sort" their problems. We reserve that activity for our sock drawers on nights when we despair of venturing out.) Like his hero Ross Cooper, Craig did time at CU--majoring in physics, no less. Geekier than that they don't get, and the story of the callow and sensitive intellectual who is bewildered by sex is a familiar fish-out-of-water theme.

Ross's story isn't American Pie or even Salisbury Pasty. (Okay, one character saves fecal samples from the jock villain in jars, but thankfully no details emerge. And be glad that the manner of collection is also left entirely to the imagination.) In short, you might expect CU life as observed by a too-polite Brit to be a gross-out, but it's not. In tone, it's more like Goodbye, Columbus than Portnoy's Complaint.

In fact, the happenings in dorm Cheyenne Arapaho are so verisimilitudinous, so mundane, that one wonders if we're not reading an autobiography helped by a cleverly cached digital voice recorder (one of those geek techno-tricks).

The subtle attraction of A Foreign Education stems from its literary heritage--the Victorian romance. You know the plot--if either of the lovers could manage to form the words "I love you," there would be no story. Ross lusts after the luscious April but just won't blurt it out, and their courtship is pretty much pathetically Platonic until, well, it's not. (Don't tell me you didn't see that coming.) So I guess you'd call it justice--Bridget Jones updates Jane Austen; Ross Cooper dusts off the corpse of Edith Wharton and gives her a good shagging.

Don't get me wrong. This book has courage--the boldness to describe collegiate sexual angst as something other than a feverish quest for the slam-bam conquest. Early on, Ross actually turns down freely offered sex, not because the partner is repulsive, but because she's attractive and yet he has no feelings for her. His roommate Jak suffers a chronic, inexplicable case of E.D.--inexplicable until you realize that performance anxiety might not be all that uncommon in a generation confronted by STDs, identity crises, competitive stress, and endless commercials for duration-prolonging pills.

This book is wry, wise, and touching. If you start it thinking that's a chicken-shit way to approach a sex comedy, you might end up rethinking what it is to be a "real man."

By the way, these days Craig works as a research scientist, lives in Salisbury with his wife and his laptop. Seems like he got his priorities sorted. (And I'm really curious whether his wife is American and has green eyes!)