Year in (Book) Review:The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

First of all, I love -- and I mean passionately LOVE -- that we live in a country where there can be buzz and hype and controversy surrounding a book, of all things. That a tiny little square of paper and ink can spark debate and invoke emotion and make people think. That we're educated enough to appreciate things others write, whether or not we agree. You will nearly never hear me talk about politics, or religion, or things of that ilk -- the former because I couldn't give two hoots and the latter because I hoot very deeply -- but I will go on record as saying that I feel blessed and proud to live in a place where any old person can read any old thing they want to. It's a gift we take for granted, and if you ever question whether or not our military is fighting for things that matter, please try to imagine a little girl somewhere who can't fathom being able or allowed to read anything at all, let alone something controversial or question-inspiring.

And, as soon as I climb down off of this here unexpectedly high horse, I'll get back to the business of book reviews. Giddy up.

I know I'm a little behind the times on this one. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is the first in a trilogy by Stieg Larsson, and the third book has just been released in hardback. So, I've got some catching up to do, but I wanted to start at the beginning. Surprisingly, while I've heard tons of buzz about the series, I knew nearly nothing about the book itself. Which caught me a bit off guard, and I'm still trying to decide if that's a bad thing or a very good one.

The back cover of the book talks about a murder mystery (ooh...), love story (ahh...), and financial intrigue (o... a... wtf?) White collar crime is hardly the stuff of legendary drama, I thought to myself, but maybe there will be enough murder and enough love to make up for it. There was.

Larsson started off a bit slowly, honestly, and I was a little concerned that I was in for another dud. (I've learned, the hard way that a lot of buzz around a book does not necessarily indicate a good book. Just a buzzed about one.) It picked up though, fairly quickly and in a big way. The title character -- who, interestingly enough, is a key player but not actually the main character, at least in this one -- is a tiny little punk girl who finds herself helping out a disgraced journalist on a case he's been hired to write about. The characters are well-developed and believable, even with their eccentricities and outlandishness, the relationships are fantastic, the pace is great, and I'm looking quite forward to the next one. Word of warning, though, and perhaps a bit of a spoiler: the book goes to some dark places, much darker than you would expect a book about "financial intrigue" to go. I'm not sure how I hadn't heard that at all and so it was really jarring, but again -- good or bad? I wouldn't have wanted any details -- and I won't give you any -- but I think I might have liked a little heads up. So there's yours.

Hoping to read the second book over the Fourth of July holiday -- nothing says love your country like tales of murder and woe!

Interesting little aside: Author Stieg Larsson, Swedish himself, as are the characters and most of the settings of his book, led a very interesting life, most of which was not as a writer but an activist. He lived for several decades with a woman with whom he protested and did activisty type things. He died, very suddenly of a heart attack, having written his trilogy but not published it. The success of the three books came after his death, but because he had no will, under Swedish law his profits and estate have gone to his next of kin -- in this case his father and brother. To date, his life partner of over thirty years has been given absolutely nothing from them. But ... she has Larsson's laptop ... which contains the fourth script in this insanely popular and profitable series. Now that's an intriguing story, my friends.

Year in (Book) Review: Dear John

I'm in a pickle, people. I know I'm going to get a good chunk of you all riled up about this one, and I'm bracing myself for the pickle-throwing storm. That may well be the most bizarre thing I've ever written, but you know what I mean.

I have long since claimed to be open-minded about the books I read. I will happily say I read trash, and I revel in it; I soak it up just as thoroughly as I can absorb my favorite Austen or genius Fitzgerald or any one of those lovable Bronte girls. Just like with film, there's a place for everything. I just watched Rachel Getting Married (Brilliant. Brilliant.) and then Pineapple Express. (Brilliant. What?) I can watch anything, read anything... As Long As It's Well Done.

How, then, do I deal with a blah book, that people happen to love? And there's no doubt that this guy is feeling the love, hard core. By the tens of millions, as women flock to the shelves to line his pockets with more money than God and the Queen combined. (I say with near certainty that no man has ever read a Nicholas Sparks book. Not even the gay ones.)

I picked up Dear John at my sister's house. (I won't say which sister, so I'm not technically outing her.) It violated my first rules of literature, which is to never read a book with movie stars on the cover. If the movie version of a book that I want to read has already come out, I will scour the back of the bookstore until I find the original book cover. But, being the literary non-snob that I am, I thought I'd give it a go. It's summer, and it seemed like a nice, summery romance.

Here's where I will give him credit. The story takes place in Wilmington, North Carolina, and I absolutely love Wilmington, North Carolina. I've been in love there, and had my heart broken there. So far, I'm on board.

That might be kind of it. The rest is ... tepid. I can't say bad, I guess. I've read some books -- not many, but some -- that I fully blame for the dumbing down of America. This wasn't that. It was just a moderately readable story, with mildly interesting characters. I had a really hard time buying into the love story that the book revolves around, not because it was relatively unfeasible (which it was) but because I just don't think he worked hard enough to make me buy it. Two young people fall in love in just a matter of days, and that's it. Now, I am hopelessly, happily romantic enough to want to believe that. But I'm world-weary enough to need some proof that, after a mere matter of hours, two people can find a love that will sustain distance and conflict and, in this case, a national tragedy and a handful of personal ones. It just wasn't there. Sparks was lazy and, I think, a little arrogant in assuming that his readers would just go along with whatever he told them, and however little he told them, without putting in the work to create an engaging, believable, heart-wrenching love. And, clearly, he was right in assuming that, since he's sold roughly a bazillion copies of this book. And the film rights.

I just can't get over the notion that it's simply not that well written. And I'm glad I didn't spend money on either one.

I'm sure I've ignited some sparks with this one -- and yes, my pun was intentional -- so I'd love, truly, to hear from some of you guys that read him a lot.

What am I missing?

Worse Than Dead Bunnies

This damn dog is going to be the death of me. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration (although she did step on my foot this morning and it really, really hurts) but it's no exaggeration at all that she may very well get me booted from the family-friendly neighborhood.

I'll explain.

Yesterday morning, I patted myself on the back the whole hour long drive (another exaggeration) to my writers' date. (A new friend of mine from my writing class and I have been meeting every morning to sit and write. I'm flying along and it feels amazing to watch this piece get longer and longer. Not necessarily better and better, or more and more interesting, but for now we'll take long as a victory.)

On the way home I went to the gym.

Once I got home I polished off two projects and delivered them, before deadline, to happy little clients.

So, I thought mid-afternoon, I shall reward myself. I shall put on a bikini and sit in the sun and read my book, with my (parent's) beloved dog by my side. So I did. I even got a giant Diet Coke to take in the backyard with me, just to sweeten the deal.

It was bliss. Idyllic. The very picture of why people live in the suburbs.

For approximately five minutes.

It wasn't the bunnies that distracted her this time. It wasn't the incessant barking of the little shit dog that our neighbors tied to a tree and left outside for, apparently, ever.

It was the TruGreen guy.

Now, when Cokie went absolutely ballistic and started barking at the fence, I probably should have paid attention. The problem is, Cokie is the little dog who barked wolf, and she goes ballistic when the mailman drives by. When anyone drives by. When a butterfly flitters past. When nothing flitters past. So I let her bark, because that's what she does. She barks. I was reading and baking and sipping and wasn't to be bothered.

This is probably an important time to mention a seemingly unrelated fact, which is that I hate tan lines. More on that in a moment.

But even for Cokie this was sounding a bit extreme, so I forced myself to lift my heavy head and lower my heavy book, and to my surprise there was a man standing there. Creepy. Holding some kind of a hose. Disturbing. More disturbing though was the sudden lack of barking. "This seems backwards," I thought, as I stared up at this hose-wielding stranger who was standing in my backyard -- inside my fenced in backyard -- "Shouldn't Cokie be barking more when the intruder has infiltrated her space?"

"I'm here to spray the stuff." Seriously, dude?

So I got up, tied the loose straps of my bathing suit around my back, and responded in the only way possible, "That's what she said."

Hose Boy had left the gate open. The dog was gone. Some protector she was. I bolted out (another exaggeration. I sort of loped. That dog really does drive me nuts.) to the front yard just in time to catch Cokie's rear end hightailing it around the far side of the next door neighbor's yard. I won't bore you with the details, but chase ensued. I ran, she ran. She ran way faster than me.

Finally I went inside -- Hose Boy was still in the backyard, I'm fairly certain either casing the joint or peeing in our bushes -- and grabbed a leash, some cheese, and a pair of flip flops. When you put flip flops on, you have to look down at what you're doing. You know, to get your toes in there right. When I looked down, I didn't see toes. I saw boobs.

At some point, in the midst of my dog run that spanned several neighbors' yards, my bathing suit top had fallen down. I don't know when. I don't know where. I do know that Hose Boy didn't mention it. Or even seem to notice, which I found oddly insulting.

At the same moment that I decided I would never be able to leave the house again Cokie came meandering into the back yard -- Hose Boy gone, gate still open -- and settled down on the back porch, with a strangely smug "mission accomplished" look on her face.

Stupid dog. Stupid Hose Boy.

Year in (Book) Review: A Reliable Wife

Now this is what I meant by creepy in a good way. A Reliable Wife, Robert Goolrick's debut novel, was recommended to me by the reliable Abigail, and she didn't let me down. (She's, well, reliable like that.)

The story revolves around a young woman, an older man, and the intertwining of their lives in ways both plotted and not so much. It's the early 1900s, it's winter -- Wisconsin-style, so, like, seriously winter -- and we know right off the bat that things, both between these two and about each of them individually, are not as they seem.

Goolrick does a wonderful job of bringing these tragically damaged characters to life, and achieving the very difficult task of making them both relatable and empathetic. As is the case with all good suspense stories, there is a melancholy undertone and a sense of foreboding that carries readers through a good chunk of the book; we're left to constantly wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop on one or both of our protagonists. It aims for equal parts harrowing and hopeful. And I think A Reliable Wife succeeds where The Fig Eater failed, by managing to be dark without the heaviness, and stylistic without being tedious. I didn't always love some of his writing choices -- there's a purposeful amount of repetition that got on my nerves every once in a while -- but the story and the characters reel you in and the language stays fluid and forward-pushing.

The twists and turns, while perhaps not entirely surprising, will keep you engaged and will shake up your idea of whom you'd most like to root for -- and against.