jodiwilldare's reviews
1523 reviews

I remember the moment Jeanette Winterson entered my life. It was the summer of 1995, upstairs in a dusty used-bookstore called The Book Peddler in downtown Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I was lost somewhere in the philosophy stacks when my friend Anderla came over holding a paperback reverently in her hands.
“You have to read this,” she said.
I took the book from her. “Why?”
“We read it when I was abroad. It’s amazing. She never reveals the gender of the narrator. You have to read it so we can talk about it.”

That was all the selling I needed. I took Written on the Body downstairs, paid for it, and started my adoration of Jeanette Winterson that day. It was, undoubtedly, the best $2 I ever spent in my entire life.
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There were times in the midst of reading Arcadia by Lauren Groff where I thought to myself, “I would totally love to live in a commune.” But then I would close the cover of the book and remember that I’m an angry hermit.

It’s not that Groff paints the commune as a halcyon of hippiedom, in fact it’s anything but. And yet, it’s still compelling. Arcadia is the dwelling spot of the “Free People” led by a charismatic singer named Handy. The group settles on a plot of land one of their trust-funded members gets for cheap off his dad, and set up a kind of hippie shanty town before they renovate the dilapidated mansion that will house them all.
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Sunday as I finished Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail I kind of sighed sadly and wished this book had been around when I was a young twentysomething woman. While the story is uniquely Strayed’s the meaning, the lesson, the whathaveyou feels universal. Mostly it’s this: you are strong and wonderful and can do hard things even if you think you can’t. Also, yes you may be wounded, you may struggle with the ghosts of your past, but it’s going to be okay.

Chances are even if I had this book when I was a twentysomething the meaning would have been lost on me. I was a unique, wounded snowflake. Eye roll. Just like everyone else.

This is not to take anything away from Strayed’s book, because it’s fantastic. She’s a wounded snowflake too, but unlike most of us she writers with the kind of bravery and unsparing eye you don’t see very often.

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I’m going go right ahead and put Jane Beckles up on a pedestal next to Ramona Flowers & Zero Hopeless-Savage. These pedestals are reserved for kickass, young, female characters from graphic novels.

After I complained last week about how difficult it is to find graphic novels written by women, LeAnn called on her posse of librarian superheroes and came up with an excellent list. From that list I plucked out The Plain Janes b Cecil Castellucci and Jim Rugg, and while I was at it I grabbed the sequel Janes in Love.

Oh.My.God.

I will now commence to blather semi-coherently about all the many, many things I loved about these two graphic novels.

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I’ve fallen off the graphic novel bandwagon. Hard. It kind of hurts. I miss graphic novels, but I’m sick of all the dudeness in the graphical realm. That’s putting it mildly. It’s the kind of sick that makes my stomach fill with acid and my cheeks flush red with anger. Why is it so damn hard to find graphic novels written by women. WHY? If you have suggestions, I will take them greedily and eagerly.

So while wandering down desolation row, I discovered Friends With Boys by Faith Erin Hicks, and immediately set about getting my greedy little hands on it.

Friends With Boys is a sweet charmer of a coming-of-age story set in small-town Canada. Maggie McKay is the youngest of four, the only daughter, and about to start her first day of high school. Starting high school is a daunting task for anyone, but it’s extra nerve-wracking for Maggie whose been home-schooled her whole life, and whose mother has recently left the family.

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One of my all-time favorite Saturday Night Live moments is a Debbie Downer sketch where Rachel Dratch biffs a line and the rest of the people in the sketch — Amy Poehler, Lindsay Lohan, Horatio Sanz, and Jimmy Fallon — lose their shit. At one point Horatio Sanz is laughing so hard he has to wipe the tears from his eyes using his sleeve. It is hilarious and never ceases to make me laugh until I can hardly breathe.

After seeing that episode, I always admired Dratch. I like the way she tried to pull it together even as all those fell apart around her. It takes some kind of bravery to solider on in the face of that, especially on live TV.

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Sometimes I get tired of the Holden Caufieldization of young adult literature. Why does the protagonist always have to be a friendless misfit? A lot of times the main character is friendless because they like vintage music (or, you know, the kind of music I, an adult like), reading books, and generally being a little sardonic when it comes to the people in their age group.

Maybe I am hopelessly out of it. I haven’t been a teenager for many, many years. Perhaps this is exactly the kind of thing that would make someone a friendless loser now days. Perhaps this is total bullshit. I think the loner is supposed to be symbolic of something, but I’m not entirely sure what anymore because it’s so overused. Is it the alienation of modern-teens? Is it that nobody will appreciate you until you’re older and see how cool you really are? Is it that it’s too hard to write about kids who feel lonely and alone even though they have friends?

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So much better than the last one. Also, lots of Rose Red which is always a good thing.