Year In Review: Where'd You Go, Belle?

Alexandra Reading by Laura Lacambra Shubert

Yes, I'm still here.

I could make numerous excuses why I haven't graced this space since the spring, but excuses just waste time. I got lost in my reading and didn't blog, it is just that.

So why even keep this blog up, you say? Out of habit, out of nostalgia for what was blogging in its infancy, mostly. Though blogging has been subjected to an 'ok boomer' practice at decade's end and seeing a slow funeral march toward corporate takeover and personal disenchantment, it's still a lifeline in some regard, a environment that appeals to my camera shy self (the brave ones can do BookTube), a place where I can put megaphone to mouth and holler. Blogs can survive in the roarin' 2020s, and it starts here and now in this space.

With all this newfound gusto, first thing's first: Febreze the fuck out of the 2010s (which was a terrible decade for me) and give 2019 a proper sendoff (because it wore out it's welcome too)...


This past reading year was...okay. Better than last year's 'meh' parade. So much better. I didn't meet my goal of reading 40 books --- only getting through half of that --- thus I'm setting my sights on "20 for 2020" as it is so cliche, and yet much more attainable for me at this time. It might work better for review sake, as such a narrow goal allows ample space to really dive deep into a book, as well as allow time to gab about other bookish things on here, you know, expand the 'candor' part.

I should give myself credit for reading not one, but four books (Catch and Kill, Furious Hours, The Nickel Boys, and Daisy Jones & The Six) that came out this year, which is a rare occurrence for me, as I'm always late to what's flying off the shelves and being gassed up on social media. So getting better there. Also didn't have a bad non-fiction book in the batch of books I read this year, as even the celebrity memoirs (Tina Turner, Sally Field, and Jenifer Lewis) that I read for escapism, were a touch more intelligent and informative than usual Hollywood fare.

For some reason, social-climbing sociopath criminals (A Ladder To The Sky and My Sister, The Serial Killer), and nihilistic ventures (They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and the warped realism of Flannery O'Connor's fiction) fascinated me in 2019, and maybe that reflected somewhat on the political news I consumed more than ever this year, as there seems to be an abundance of apathy and warped mentalities there...

All in all, I still consider 2019 a success because I read, and conquered, good and bad.

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Favorites

Fiction

My Sister, The Serial Killer, by Oyinkan Braithwaite

"Jordan Peele Needs To Buy The Film Rights Award" 

Blending the right amount of sibling hierarchy, slasher horror nostalgia, and social media irony, this taunt thriller set in the heat of a Nigerian summer, explores the sinister ways a sisterhood can function.

A Ladder To The Sky, by John Boyne [Review]

"Mr. Ripley's Got A Twin Brother Award"

The premise of this is simple: a social-climbing smooth operator inserts himself into the echelons of the literary world with feverish and criminal intent. Highsmith's Ripley and Ellis Easton's Patrick Bateman come to mind as descendants of Maurice Swift, but Boyne makes such a memorable sociopath that there is always 'room for one more'. Bonus points for a spot-on (and cheeky) "cameo" from Gore Vidal.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, by Horace McCoy [Review]

"Well Shit, This Is Depressing Award" 

Nihilistic and bitter to the bone, this slim classic based in a claustrophobic dance hall during the Great Depression acts as allegory and cautionary tale about our class systems and the abuse they can inflict on the human condition. Yowza, yowza...

Brother, by David Chariandy

"The We Are Family Award"

Moving in time to the pulse of '90s hip-hop, Chariandy's harrowing mood piece of two brothers who navigate the thorny politics of their block, community, and country at large got me to shed a few tears. His handling of brotherly devotion and loss within the family unit is just so powerful and sincere, and overall effective in capturing how a family unravels when it loses an essential part of its fabric.

The Bridge of Beyond, by Simone Schwartz-Bart

"The Hidden Gem Literary Fiction Award"

Three generations of Guadeloupe women occupy this stunning and sprawling family chronicle that explores with deft and poetic beauty the complexities of mother-daughter relationships that are marred by the ruthless legacy of slavery. This one took awhile to digest, but the reward was met as the prose is sumptuous and its characterization gleam exquisite.

A Good Man Is Hard to Find: Stories, by Flannery O’Connor

"Short Story Collection That Didn't Suck Award" 

Flannery O'Connor was always so undaunted (and chillingly spot-on) in exploring the sinister side of human nature, and framing the racial turmoil in the American South and its practitioners as the macabre madness it is.

The Blue Castle, by L.M. Montgomery [Review]

"The Bridget Jones Just The Way She Is Award"

Valancy Stirling might be a prototype for all the bemoaning nearing-30 and unmarried set that would grace a late 20th century rom-com, but she's probably one of the best characters I became acquainted with this year. Blue Castle doesn't get as much shine as the saga of L.M. Mongtomery's spunky red-haired heroine, but it was a joy to discover and snuggle into this wonderful little heart warmer about second chances.

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Non-Fiction

Catch & Kill: Lies, Spies, and a Conspiracy to Protect Predators, by Ronan Farrow

"The Muckraker Award"

Calling it now: Ronan Farrow writes the All The President's Men of our time. A riveting, frustrating, and essential inside look at Farrow's efforts to bring to light the predatory tirade of Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein in the midst of his own familial conflicts, a Trump presidency, and a culture on the brink of #MeToo.

Paperback Crush: The Totally Radical History of '80s and '90s Teen Fiction, by Gabrielle Moss

"The Smells Like Dunkaroos, Jelly Bracelets, & Body Fantasies Sprays Spirit Award" 

A true slap of nostalgia keepsake that transported me back to the days of combing the squeaky paperback racks at my local library, and B. Dalton bookstore shelves during my youth. It covers everything from the usual suspects (Sweet Valley High to The Baby-Sitters Club) to all the horror and thriller giants (waves to R.L Stine, Christopher Pike, and Lois Duncan) to why there were so many books about horse clubs and kidnappings back then. Bonus points for sections that remembered misbegotten POC fiction, especially Black fiction: I truly thought I'd had a fever dream about 18 Pine Street!

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Fails

Fiction

White Fur, by Jardine Libarie [Review]

"Romeo & Juliet Would Roll Their Eyes At You Award"

To quote myself:

"In White Fur the metropolis becomes a Viewfinder series of images: here's an offbeat city character, here's a cocaine-laced dinner party, here's a car honking, here's the sun setting, here is a jaunt to a Prince concert, here is a park tunnel where someone was no doubt raped, here are bums on stoops, here's a dog peeing and crapping ---- all these entities are explored with finesse and ~deep~ thought. But truly, a dog is just taking a crap on the sidewalk, you can't make that "poetic", but damn it if Libaire doesn't try to make fecal matter an artful semantic. Elise and Jamey just go nowhere and get lost in this sea of people, places, words, and hidden meanings, remaining startlingly one-dimensional throughout." 

In short: this book was a steaming pile.

Daisy Jones & The Six, by Taylor Jenkins-Reid [Review]

"Overrated Sludge That Reese Witherspoon Shills Award"

Terrible, no good VERY bad Fleetwood Mac fan-fiction.

Great Granny Webster, by Caroline Blackwood

"Flat Soda Award"

Great Granny Webster isn't a novel. It isn't even a companion piece of familial claustrophobia a la Shirley Jackson's brilliant We've Always Lived In The Castle. It's a flustered airing of manic grievances from Caroline Blackwood about her kooky family. A total bait-n-switch that is oddly over-written as it is underwritten. No specter lurks, no bodies are buried, no stench of secrets permeates the air --- the blurb lied. This is nothing but repetitive sentences about how crumbling and ice cold a mansion is, and how a bag of bones is a total bitch. It is a novel about nothing.