…in order from worst to best.

The two words that come to mind when I think of Family Trust by Amanda Brown are “frivolous” and “dumb.” Brown is the author of the Legally Blonde novel, but having read Family Trust I wonder if the movie’s charm came from elsewhere. At any rate Family Trust seems to have been written solely in the hopes that it, too, would be converted into a Reese Witherspoon film. If we are lucky, it won’t be. The premise of the book is that unmarried parents die in a plane crash, each appointing a separate guardian for the four-year-old left behind. The two different-as-can-be guardians have to learn to get along as they raise their new daughter and then—wocka wocka wocka—fall in love.

The Ivy Chronicles by Karen Quinn lands in the middle of the scale. It’s not a whole lot less frivolous than Family Trust, but there’s a goofy quality about the book—the main character goes on a date with George Clooney; another character gets eaten by an alligator—that reminds me of Janet Evanovich. The plot here centers on New York businesswoman Ivy Ames, who loses her bigshot job and bigshot husband and so launches a company that helps parents get their kids into the best private kindergartens. (Aside: this topic—the snootiness and impossibility of Manhattan kindergartens—seems to deliver endless fascination to chick lit authors and audiences. It appears in both Family Trust and The Nanny Diaries. I kinda don’t get it.) Along the way Ivy does anything to make her clients successful: working with a mobster, painting a little girl black, even selling out her own (Jewish) people for cash. But in the end she regains her dignity and fixes some of her more pronounced value flaws. I recommend this book over Family Trust mainly because it’s sillier and there’s a lot more swearing.

The one I liked the best was Sabine Durrant’s Having It and Eating It, a novel about the shadowy sides of parenting and marriage. By far the most realistic of the three books, Durrant’s novel follows Maggie Owen, a stay-at-home mom of a baby and a toddler who has grown increasingly estranged from her busy advertising exec hubby. Filled with dark humor and adorable British lingo, Having It and Eating It explores the inherent tensions of child-rearing and long-term relationships, the lure of adultery, the peculiar joys and jealousies of women for whom motherhood is a full-time job.

With that, I’m over my chick lit experiment. I never could find any lad lit aside from Nick Hornby (who I think is good but ever-so-slightly overrated); apparently this was a genre more or less invented by publishing houses hoping to bring chick lit to the boys. But they failed—pretty big time—because, of course, most men don’t read fiction that isn’t headlined by the likes of Jack Ryan and Dirk Pitt. Geez, we could have told them that!

It’s been suggested by some readers here that I look into the chick lit phenomenon, a genre we skipped in Why We Read What We Read because it simply isn’t bestselling—at least not bestselling enough to thrust a title into the top 15 for any one year. Still, one really can’t ignore the hot pink drawings gracing innumerable slim paperbacks at one’s local bookstore. These titles occupy premium display space at the chain stores, proof enough that they are selling in very satisfying quantities indeed.

As a clueless outsider, I wasn’t sure even what “chick lit” really was. After all, 70% of literary fiction is read by women, and with even autobiographical journeys like Eat, Pray, Love scoring big with the ladies, it wasn’t clear to me that all of those offerings didn’t qualify. However, according to the book reviewers over at ChickLitBooks.com, chick lit is women’s fiction of a very special type:

It’s all in the tone. Chick lit is told in a more confiding, personal tone. It’s like having a best friend tell you about her life….Humor is a strong point in chick lit, too….THAT is what really separates chick lit from regular women’s fiction.

Got it. Less Maya Angelou, more Bridget Jones.

I also learned that chick lit, like romantic fiction, comes in multiple sub-genres. You’ve got City Girl Lit, and Wedding Lit, and Hen Lit (for “older” women in their 30s to 60s). You’ve got Christian Lit, “Bigger Girl” Lit, even “Lad Lit” that’s written by and about men (but in that all-important light and humorous tone).

I started with Mom Lit. It seemed like it would be different from The Nanny Diaries (which I did read once) and Sex and the City (which I still watch a lot) without veering too far into one of the more peculiar branches of the genre.

And I started with a powerhouse: Jennifer Weiner. Though chick lit hasn’t broken through to an annual list’s top 15, Weiner is still a bestselling author who sold nearly 300,000 copies of The Guy Not Taken in 2007. That’s not the book I read, though. I picked up Little Earthquakes, a story about women who meet in a prenatal yoga class and become friends, supporting each other through their trials with their husbands and new babies.

Well, I wasn’t very impressed. I just felt so neutral about this book: it wasn’t horribly boring, but it wasn’t terribly interesting. And, disappointingly, despite the promises of ChickLitBooks.com, it just wasn’t that funny. It was light, certainly, and it had scenes that I know were supposed to be funny, but the only thing that I thought was genuinely amusing was when the women took turns tossing yarmulkes across the room at their babies’ bare heads.

Of course, a book needn’t be funny if it has depth, but I thought Little Earthquakes was lacking in that department as well. It wasn’t really about anything—except that caring for an infant is really, really hard. That’s all true, and I can see the book being comforting to overworked new moms (if they would even have time to read it), but I just needed more.

Halfway through, in fact, I needed so much more that I swapped Little Earthquakes for Tom Perrotta’s Little Children. Both the titular and thematic similarities were coincidental, but the comparison well demonstrated what I want from a novel that my foray into chick lit just wasn’t delivering.

Themes. Themes! Themes!! I like my books to be about something bigger, to comment upon the human condition, to explore our tweaked-out selves in some thoughtful way. It’s not a matter of topic: like Weiner, Perrotta writes about parents, children, marriage, and suburban life. But he does it in a way that’s so much less shallow, so much less predictable, and just—honestly—so much better.

His story follows a number of befuddled characters: a stay-at-home mom who can’t quite figure how she ever ended up married with a child; a hot stay-at-home dad who sneaks out at night to watch skateboarders instead of studying for the bar exam he’s failed twice; an angry retired cop with an agenda; a panty-sniffer; and yes, even a child molester. Perhaps these dark edges give Perrotta an immediate literary advantage. But either way, he works his theme both literally and figuratively: the characters are linked by the “little children” around which their lives revolve, while also becoming helpless “little children” themselves in the face of their own desires.

After finishing Little Children, I did eventually get to the embarrassingly shallow ending of Little Earthquakes, in which all is magically resolved. What’s so strange to me is that Weiner goes out of her way to crystallize the genuine, overwhelming difficulty of motherhood, but then gives us an ending that glazes over all the problems she’s spent 400 pages cataloging. Does realism not apply to denouements? Perrotta’s ending, on the other hand, manages to be generally positive without undermining the issues and complexities explored in the novel.

I wonder—and this is a theory, not a statement—if one difference between literary and genre fiction is how they deal with truth: the former dishes it out relentlessly while the latter can’t quite look it in the eye.

We’ll see. I’m not judging all chick lit based on this one book. I’ll be back with reviews of Family Trust, Having It and Eating It, and maybe some of that quirky “Lad Lit” if I can get my hands on it.

Never has a woman embodied that old saying “when a door closes, another one opens” quite like Elizabeth Gilbert.

There she was, married and nesting, trying to get preggers, when she realized that women who really want husbands and babies probably don’t sob for hours every night on their bathroom floors. Three years and one nasty divorce later, Gilbert had lost it all. Broke and bereft, she had no idea where to go or what to do.

Then her publisher had a great idea. They’d give Gilbert an advance that would enable her to travel abroad for a year, writing the book that would become the mega-bestseller Eat, Pray, Love.

Some people have all the luck.

Gilbert segmented her trip—and her book—into three equal parts. The first stop was Italy, home of gastronomic and linguistic pleasure; next came India, where all the serious people go to connect with God; finally, Bali, to learn…erm…something about balance. If you’ve been trolling this blog for a while, you’ll know I was not particularly keen to read Eat, Pray, Love, but I will happily admit that the book was much better than I feared. Gilbert’s writing is witty and charmingly self-deprecating, and she has a wonderful way of drawing threads through the story that make the whole journey—or at least the resulting book—cohesive and complete.

The section on Italy will make you drool. Hell, it’ll probably make you fat. (Is there a volume of Eat This Not That for Italian food? It’s probably Not That! No, Not That Either!) Gilbert’s life in Italy is almost unbearably dreamy. She does nothing but whatever she wants, every day—mainly eating gelato and speaking Italian—for four pound-packing months.

Oh, it hurts not to be her.

But I stopped feeling so envious in part two, when Gilbert heads to India for four months of spiritual calisthenics. I’m sure her descriptions are all very insightful and magical…but if you are not especially spiritual or into meditation you may find this portion of the book boring. Or loony. I sort of wanted to pat her on the head the whole time and say, “Sure, lady. Mm-hmm.” (And I’m not the only one. I talked to two genuine grade-A middle-aged moms—the demographic voted Most Likely to Inhale This Book—and even they skipped parts of this section.)

Finally, Gilbert whiles away the final leg of her journey in Bali, and in her search for balance she’s back to her old witty ways. Her portrayal of the culture and characters of this tiny Indonesian island is both charming and fascinating. And by the end, the broken woman we met at the beginning of the story has become happy, balanced, and whole.

So I gotta say that overall I was pleasantly surprised. Hear me now—Eat, Pray, Love is a thoughtful and enjoyable book.

But I do have to bring up one teensy weensy little thing.

I don’t think I’ve ever read a book that so brazenly celebrated self-absorption. I know, I know—it’s the genre. It’s what Gilbert’s publishers paid for. I get it. Still, what is with female readers and their excessive navel-gazing? Unlike most literary works, which at least cover a number of characters and ideas, this book is literally about one person. It’s kind of about the pursuit of pleasure; it’s kind of about praying; it’s kind of about balance. But mostly it’s about Elizabeth Gilbert. In short, one of America’s very favorite reads for the past 61 weeks is about someone who spends a year doing nothing but thinking about herself. Is this the new American dream? Looking at our literature, it certainly seems that way. Too bad only the very very fortunate get paid for it.

Holy crap, what a dumb name for a book. I know it’s been on the bestseller charts for a while, but I’ve been ignoring it because 1) it’s a diet book, yawn and 2) its title is so exceedingly lame.

But last night John and I went out in the world and spied this little volume with our own eyes. And I realized when I saw the cover that this was not your typical benign-but-forgettable book of diet advice.

See, the title wasn’t just the result of a lazy or uninspired author. Eat This Not That is literally the point of the whole book: it provides specific suggestions for what to eat and what not to eat at some of America’s most popular chain restaurants. Try the chili onion rings, not the nacho cheese bacon poppers. Order the fried butter, not the ham-and-lard sandwich. In other words, eat this [unhealthy garbage] instead of that [even more unhealthy garbage]. The book features two pages for each establishment—Applebee’s, Taco Bell, Cici’s Pizza—providing a list of thises and thats for each beloved, nasty greasehole.

Boy is this the perfect “diet” book for the modern era. Only Americans could be so retarded as to think that eating a Big Mac instead of a Whopper with Cheese will help them lose weight (yes, this is actually one of the proffered suggestions). That people would seriously buy and recommend this book (it’s got almost five stars on Amazon)—and that someone in good conscience could publish it—absolutely boggles the mind.

The only merit to Eat This Not That, I would say, is that it exposes just how horrible and fattening this kind of food really is. Even I didn’t know that a plate of Denny’s pancakes packs a walloping 980 calories, and I’m pretty obnoxious when it comes to caloric awareness. The book also goes on to offer general suggestions for making healthier food choices, but frankly the main thrust of the content is so ridiculous that I can’t give Eat This Not That even the teensiest endorsement. But maybe that’s not entirely fair. After all, while dieting you could be kidnapped and forced to eat at Popeye’s, and then this book would be totally useful. Riiight.

Look, I’m not saying I never ever eat this type of food—I do—but never would I dream that it was going to result in anything but bulges and flab. The plain truth is that no dieter should even breathe the fumes of any of these restaurants, and the fact that thousands of people are buying a book like Eat This Not That shows we are nowhere near to facing, let alone solving, our ever-swelling obesity epidemic.

So here’s a cool idea. You start a story, get the reader into it, and then abruptly cut it off 4o pages later—in mid-sentence, no less. Then you begin a totally different story, one that takes place in a different time with different characters—written, even, in a different style—and wriggle in a reference to the previous story somewhere in the process.

Then you do it five more times.

That’s the methodology underlying David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, which begins as a colonial travelogue but quickly morphs into a sassy correspondence—then a thriller—then a black comedy—then an interview—and finally a storytelling session in a tribal dialect of the future. But just when you’ve reached the last story—in the middle of the book, that is—the whole piece unwinds, returning to and tying up each story in reverse order.

As if that wasn’t painfully clever enough, Mitchell even has one of his characters, a musician, compose a piece called the “Cloud Atlas Sextet,” which shares the book’s structure. In a letter to a former lover, the character describes his work:

In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor: in the second, each interruption is recontinued, in order. Revolutionary or gimmicky? (445)

Well, the world has spoken, and it looks like the vote is for “revolutionary.” Or at least awesome.

Of course, even so, Cloud Atlas was not a bestseller. It often requires, like, concentration—which would explain why it took ME so long to finish it—and each plunge into a new story can leave you discombobulated. So this is definitely not your mainstream fare. But snobs and linguaphiles, take this one on! The reward for your efforts is lush and beautiful writing, the work of a clear master.

You’d better think twice before slapping a fatwa on Greg Mortenson. Try to deny this dude his dream of educating Pakistani children and he will be all over your sorry terrorist-abiding ass. Oh sure, he’ll sit down with you, all civilized-like. But as soon as you’ve poured the tea, he’ll overturn the table and scald you with the requisite three cups, all the while screaming, “I’m gonna build you a school, mother****er!”

Oh, if only. Maybe that’s how the movie version will turn out.

Three Cups of Tea is a fine book. A fine book that could have used just a little spice. Journalist David Oliver Relin ably tells the story of unwitting hero Greg Mortenson, a mountain climber who gets lost during a K2 expedition and discovers not only a remote Pakistani village but his life’s purpose. Three Cups chronicles Mortenson’s efforts to build schools for the Middle East’s poorest children, thus fighting what he believes are the root causes of terrorism and religious extremism. Risking his life countless times, devoting himself in a way unimaginable to most of us, Mortenson is a remarkable and inspiring man who deserves every royalty he gets from this raging bestseller.

And yet this book didn’t quite grab me the way Reading Lolita in Tehran—to which it is frequently compared—did. I’m sure that’s partially because Lolita is about the transformative power of literature, and Three Cups is more vaguely about education—I dunno, math and crap. (I’m joking. I love math. But it doesn’t get me all misty.) It’s also, I think, because Three Cups is kind of a one-note inspirational experience, a reeeeaaaallly long Chicken Soup for the Soul selection. Mortenson is awesome. I believe it. But I believed it by page 10 and at that point there were still 320 pages to go.

That’s not to say I didn’t learn a lot. I learned about mountain climbing and construction and the Middle Eastern way of life (don’t rush it, man—the Pakistani chiefs are rather like the chilled-out surfers in my native Santa Cruz, though probably not as stoned). I learned that most Americans are into helping Buddhists but tend to shun the Muslims. And I learned that that’s just silly, because Muslims are poorer and will thus love you more when you lend a hand.

Okay, that’s not really the message of Three Cups, though the book says in no uncertain terms that Mortenson’s beneficent, education-bestowing presence in the Middle East combats terrorism and anti-American sentiment better than any military approach ever could. Passionate testimonials from all and sundry confirm the lasting dividends of both secular education and American lovingkindness, making the book positively pulse with a heartwarming (if heavy-handed) glow.

So: if you’re looking for an interesting plunge into another culture, a well-written chronicle of a real-life hero, Three Cups of Tea is the book for you. But if you’re looking for whoop-ass, even one cup of it, you’ll have to drink something besides Mortenson’s inspirational tea.

Yeah, yeah, I know they’re not exactly new. But as a lifetime opponent of comic books, I was in no hurry to snuggle up to this genre. All those nonsensical premises. All that ridiculous dialogue. I had been told that graphic novels were different, but were they? I was too suspicious to find out for sure.

No doubt I would have continued down the path of words-only snobbery had it not been for a lazy weekend getaway and the recommendation of my friend Alice, a woman of excellent and eclectic taste. Having finally finished Three Cups of Tea (review forthcoming), and being so pathetically indolent as to require a book with pictures, I cracked open Alice’s copy of Tamara Drewe by Posy Simmonds.

Tamara Drewe takes place, seemingly, in my wildest dreams: a writer’s retreat in the English countryside, a drowsy little collection of cottages where members of the most self-indulgent profession can work in solitude, their every need met. But tensions brew amongst the proprietors and writers-in-residence—affairs, obsessions, and artistic differences that shatter the fragile peace and privacy sought by all.

The writing here is real—nothing like the excessive bluster and bolding so beloved to the comic book genre. And the art is simple but evocative. I truly enjoyed the interplay between words and images, the way the art enhances and deepens the text. I don’t see myself reading a ton of graphic novels in the future, but I would certainly reserve a spot in my library for other books of this ilk. Just call me a late adopter.

Don’t you hate it when you’re reading a bunch of books but none of them really do it for you?

That’s been my problem over the past couple of weeks. If only the books I’m reading were actually bad! Then I could stop—or (more likely) finish them right away and gleefully write them up in this blog.

So here’s what I’m slogging through:

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin—this is my “big bestseller” selection; it’s currently #6 on the USA Today list, enjoying its 47th week of fame. It’s about this dude, Greg Mortenson, who gets lost during a K2 climbing expedition and finds his way to a remote village in Pakistan. Befriending the natives, Mortenson agrees to return and build a school for the village children. Three Cups of Tea is the story of Mortenson’s personal journey from mountain-climbing hippie to nonprofit CEO, the story of what he gives to and learns from some of the poorest communities on earth.

There is nothing inherently bad about this book. The writing is quite good and the story is interesting, even inspiring, a la Reading Lolita in Tehran. But god-dang is it detailed. I’m halfway in and Mortenson still hasn’t finished his first school. It makes me feel a bit like I’m in school with a bad case of senioritis.

Next up is Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Now I realize this is a cult classic. I also realized within about 10 pages that this was a cult to which I was never going to belong. I find the writing amusing (this is a good thing; I’m supposed to) and I always applaud the silly people who manage to make it in the arts. But I just don’t, can’t, care about anything that happens in this book. Just don’t. Just can’t. In the introduction, the authors write about rabid fans who’ve read this book so many times it has been dropped in puddles, baked in souffles, and incorporated into their nervous systems. My mind is boggled by such ardor. But I am happy for the authors all the same.

I’m also slowly climbing through The Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, a real literary work with an excruciatingly clever organization scheme that I am legitimately enjoying. The problem here is that I actually have to concentrate on this book and I am fresh out of brain cells most evenings.

So instead I’ve been turning to Over the Hill and Between the Sheets, a lighthearted collection about sex and love in middle age, edited by Gail Belsky. I actually picked this up as research for a project I’m beginning, but it turned out to be a fine read, especially when I was feeling too exhausted for school-building, random silliness, or excruciating cleverness. Marriage, divorce, adultery, botox—all are covered here. But my favorite selection of the bunch is Stephan Wilkinson’s “Mechanical Failure,” a story about life—and sex—after prostatectomy, “the all-too-common operation performed to excise prostate cancer” that “often snips the nerve that provokes an erection” and shortens the penis, to boot. Wilkinson speaks with candor and good humor about his adventures with penis pumps, hypodermic needles, and ultimately choosing life over intercourse.

But I finished the book, sadly—no more avoiding the rest! Since it’s raining today and I don’t do football*, I will attempt to free myself from at least one of the literary rocks so assiduously lashed to my ankles.

* unless someone brings me tasty snacks

So, Afghanistan pretty much sucks.

Not inherently, of course. (I’m sure it’s lovely in the springtime.) But it’s had various inhabitants over the past 30-odd years that have made it really hard to kick back and enjoy the scenery. Especially if you’re a girl.

Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns has oft been described to me as “the sequel to The Kite Runner, told from a woman’s point of view.” That’s half true; it’s not a sequel (as I mentioned in an earlier post), but it is told entirely from the perspectives of two women. The novel begins with Mariam, the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy man. Forced to marry, Mariam finds herself wedded to a strict husband whose brutal tendencies begin to emerge as she proves incapable of bringing a child to term. After nearly twenty miserable years, Mariam’s husband takes another wife, Laila—a beautiful young woman, newly and secretly pregnant, who agrees to marry so she can save her reputation and protect her absent lover’s unborn child. The relationship between the two imprisoned and abused wives is the essence of the story.

I’m having a hard time pinpointing what I think about this novel. The writing is good; the story is good. And it does an excellent job of exposing the misery and helplessness endured by women in the clutches of an extremist society. But I do think Hosseini veers toward the simplistic in both his books, creating bad men who are too one-sided to be interesting. Of course, his subjects are abusive husbands and Taliban bigwigs: what choice does he have? Still, I would say that at times his “big” stories and “bad” characters undermine the best parts of his novels—those that bypass the inarguable evils and explore simple humanity.

Hey! My article, “How NOT to Write a Bestseller,” went up last week, but I just discovered it! I’m so on top of things. Beneath the Cover is a great place to find articles on all aspects of the book industry.