So obviously, nothing was done last night in the way of working on this site. I did read some more of my computer book on HTML, thus confirming my fear that it will roundly kick my ass and possibly make me cry. I also finished up The Washingtonienne.
I didn’t read the book when it first came out; it really just seemed like, “Why bother?” She’d been all over the news, all over the morning radio shows (and let me tell you, she offended Eliot from DC101—that takes offensiveness!), all over DC. Additionally, from the interviews I’d seen and heard, she didn’t sound terribly interesting. I’d glanced at her blog, equally uninteresting.
But Sunday with the green Chartreuse pounding behind my right eye, I gave in to the perfect breasts on her cover. I covet that bra. (I am a huge sucker for good marketing. I'll even drink Little Penguin because Awww! Penguin!)
This book was so bad I was genuinely disappointed. Cutler had already shown us how vapid and amoral she is, but could that really be true? I simply could not believe that one of my contemporaries is really that empty inside. Aren’t we a generation that really wants to feel something? Didn’t we all cry when Kurt Cobain died? Aren’t we the Dr. Spock babies? How could one of us be so devoid of creativity?
Not only are the actions of the narrator almost entirely without emotional motivation, there is simply no characterization anywhere in the book. Lots of characters, but no personalities. The barest of attempts are made to hint at the personalities of some of the female characters through descriptions of their clothing. They fall flat.
There’s no moral at the end of the story, either. Before I cracked the book open, I expected one. Even though I’d heard the author in interviews and knew she hadn’t learned a damn thing, I thought if she’d gotten a book deal it was because she’d written something with a plot line. Yeah, there’s a trajectory, but not a meaningful one at all.
Bad Hyperion. Why did you publish this??
Why am I so upset by this book I’m also suddenly incapable of coherent, moderately intelligent thought? I’m not offended by the immorality of it. In fact, I am a huge fan of kept-woman stories, such as Nana (Zola) and Camille (Dumas, fils). But those are excellent stories told by masterful stories-tellers.
I feel betrayed. I wanted to believe in Jessica Cutler to some degree. I wanted to believe there was something about her that I could relate to, even admire. Well, it’s certainly not her writing ability. I relate more to the 19th-century French guy. And it’s not her ability to turn her stupid mistakes around to her benefit, nope.
(To be entirely fair, there are intelligent and appropriate references to Madame Bovary in both the book and Cutler’s blog. They seemed very lonely.)
I think I’m going to return the book to B&N and go spend my money on a fabulous bra for myself instead. Surely no one can call me immoral, right?
