Book-It 'o11! Book #18
The Fifty Books Challenge, year three! (Years one and two, just in case you're curious.) This was a library request.
Title: Sing You Home: A Novel by Jodi Picoult
Details: Copyright 2011, Atria Books
Synopsis (By Way of Front Flap): "Every life has a soundtrack. All you have to do is listen.
Music has set the tone for most of Zoe Baxter’s life. There’s the melody that reminds her of the summer she spent rubbing baby oil on her stomach in pursuit of the perfect tan. A dance beat that makes her think of using a fake ID to slip into a nightclub. A dirge that marked the years she spent trying to get pregnant.
For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.
In the aftermath of a series of personal tragedies, Zoe throws herself into her career as a music therapist. When an unexpected friendship slowly blossoms into love, she makes plans for a new life, but to her shock and inevitable rage, some people-even those she loves and trusts most-don’t want that to happen.
Sing You Home is about identity, love, marriage, and parenthood. It’s about people wanting to do the right thing for the greater good, even as they work to fulfill their own personal desires and dreams. And it’s about what happens when the outside world brutally calls into question the very thing closest to our hearts: family."
Why I Wanted to Read It: I'd remembered reading one of Picoult's other books as a teenager and liking it and I heard she was actually going to start writing for a re-launch of Wonder Woman in the comics.
How I Liked It: Is there any mainstream, popular author that's as trite as Jodi Picoult? It is possible, more or less (Stephen King, Dan Brown), albeit Picoult's brand of triteness is enough to make many writers' work look "wild". In the years since I've read Salem Falls, I'd manage to forget her proclivity for Mad Libs-esque cultural references that read like Swiss cheese stitched together with People magazine, as well as Picoult's reliance on sitcom level banter and cheap, Hallmark-commercial sentiment. Stock characters abound, obviously.
The book's intended theme, judging by the packaging (each chapter is organized like a track listing and the book has an accompanying CD with original music by Picoult written for each chapter), is the power of music. The central protagonist is a music therapist and her tendency to see everything in terms of beats, rhythms, and vocals (whilst clutching her ever-present iPod) would cement the fact that this is supposed to be a book about music whose central character happens to discover she's in love with a woman. Unlike Dearest Anne, a story of coming of age and struggling to find a personal narrative that happens to have a same-sex romance at its the core of the plot, Sing You Home is a book that is all about GAY RIGHTS and maybe there's some music to do with that. The funny thing is the fact that Dearest Anne is largely held up by critics as a sort of example whereas Sing You Home appears to be considered for the story itself (in fairness, it's a brand new book and not the international sensation that Dearest Anne was, and therefore subject to far less scrutiny).
So what if, to put aside the entire packaging by the author, we make the theme of this story not about music, but about gay rights? (I stress the term gay rights, even though the term LGBTQ is used occasionally, since the rather monosexist approach is a fair exclusion to at least one of the letters.) As a gay rights novel, it's cringe-worthy. Despite all the talk of dismissing stereotypes, male gays characters discussed in the novel are quick with flourishes and a "Fabulous!", and the main character's love interest hates skirts and make-up and wears super-short, no-fuss hair. Also, and this is perhaps nit-picking, there is the monosexism. The main character, after being divorced by her husband for their procreative differences, falls in love with her best friend, and thus realizes since she is in love with a woman, she is gay. Her previous sexual feelings towards men are never really considered, although she recalls a childhood crush and a kiss from a female friend. And what gay it is! How the world changes after the main character has her "revelation"! All falls into place, of course, and she accepts a "lesbian" identity. If we were to substitute the word "queer" for "lesbian" (which the author does not), "queer" being used as a synonym for "LGBT community", perhaps the main character's enthusiasm would be easier to both accept and understand. But the idea that she might be bisexual (or anything other than rock-solidly lesbian) is never discussed. She all but buys a gay membership card (Picoult's setting is really that simplistic) when she finds herself attracted to a woman.
And with the monosexism comes some flat-out sexism and general what-the-fuckery. When we get around to the first sexual encounter, we find the following:
“Everyone wants to know what the sex is like.
It's different from being with a man, for all the obvious reasons, and many more that you'd never imagine. For one thing, it's more emotional, and there's less to prove. There are moments that are soft and tender, and others that are raw and intense-- but as not as if there's a guy to play the dominant role and a girl to play the passive one. We take turns being protected, and being the protector.
Sex with a woman is what you wish it was with a man but it rarely seems to be: all about the journey, and not the destination. It's foreplay forever. It is the freedom to not have to suck in your stomach or think about cellulite. It is being able to say, that feels good and, more important, that doesn't. I will admit that, at first, it was strange to curl up in Vanessa's arms when I was used to resting against a muscular chest-- but the strangeness wasn't unpleasant. Just unfamiliar, as if I'd suddenly moved to the rainforest after living in the desert. It is another kind of beautiful.
Sometimes when a male colleague finds out I am with Vanessa, I can see it in his eyes-- the expectation that every night is a girl-on-girl porn video. My current sex life is no more like that than my former one was like a love scene with Brad Pitt. I could sleep with a man again, but I don't think I'd enjoy it, or feel as safe, or as daring. So if I am not filled by Vanessa-- in the literal sense, anyway-- I am fulfilled by her, which is way better.” (pgs 203 and 204)
Okay, let's suppose that Picoult is truly writing in character, despite the fact that voice is of her central character, the novel's protagonist. The book is told in three voices, that of the main character, Zoe, her husband who divorces her, Max, and her new love and eventual wife, Vanessa. As to be expected, Max and Vanessa's chapters are shorter and less in-depth, but their tones of puzzling out the world around them are somewhat similar. Max, who becomes a born-again Christian, discusses in a similar fashion the feeling of what it means to accept Jesus, therefore suggesting that Zoe's monologue above is somehow meant to be not as divorced from reality as it actually is.
But.
Although the "Christians" in this book are intolerant zealots, Max's description of his feelings of faith contain nothing offensive or hateful.
Still, if we are putting gay rights at the forefront (which the author clearly is), those paragraphs are still intensely offensive as well as ignorant. The author is straight, but I'm sure she's done "plenty" of research about lesbians and the queer woman identity. Or, you know, not. While I'm sure there are some women for whom the above happens to ring true, I'm willing to wager that most would be just as squicked as I am.
Picoult attempts a decent point with the "fantasy" angle, a frequent thorn in the side of queer women everywhere. But it's clumsy. Her sex with her wife, if she's doing it right, is a porno/fantasy experience, just the same as the sex with her husband should've been a porno/fantasy experience. The different between the two is that you'll find damn few people with a heterosexual "boy-on-girl" fetish, for whom the idea of two attractive heterosexuals would be as titillating as a cinematic love scene.
But the sexism is what really gets to me. As Dan Savage, who happens to be gay, would happily tell Picoult and her misinformed fictional character, if you have a partner, male or female, that doesn't foster an environment of you being able to speak your sexual likes and dislikes, you mention it, you do not chalk it up to some Mars and Venus garbage. To say nothing of the roles that Picoult apparently assigns to men and women. And filled "in the literal sense"? Not to be crude, but I'm guessing the couple badly needs to expand their repertoire; even midde-school kids know what a dildo is.
What's annoying the most is perhaps the fact Picoult markets all of this as somehow progressive-- the characters aren't stereotypical because she talks about stereotypes! There is no one way because she mentions there is no one way!
Characters, dialog, "research"-- how about the story itself? At over four-hundred fifty pages, we're left with retreading plenty on some story arcs whilst leaving some seemingly plot-pivotal ones abruptly dropped altogether or all-too-neatly tied up in the final chapter.
So is there anything that redeems this novel? Well, there's a reason why Picoult is popular-- her books are readable. Even if the dialog can be so snappily insufferable you're gagging, even if the "research" she did is faulty, the plot more or less chugs along at a readable rate. It's not so much that you're particularly invested in the characters-- they're far too stock for that-- it's that the settings become relatively familiar enough that it's a little like accidentally turning on a sitcom you'd previously deemed was insipid one night and ending up watching it and then continuing to watch it.
There's an undeniably homey sort of quality (which quickly and frequently veers into triteness) in Picoult's writing. It's a shame it can't be better channeled and controlled.
Notable: Characteristic of the Mad Libs style of inserting current figures in pop culture into dialog, Zoe's Boomer-aged mother offers the following in arguing in favor of her "hipness":
"Do I look like a senior, for God's sake? I color my hair religiously. I have an elliptical machine. I gave up Brian Williams for Jon Stewart." (pg. 16)
Only those who know little to nothing about the show put forth Stewart as a news anchor, obviously.
Title: Sing You Home: A Novel by Jodi Picoult
Details: Copyright 2011, Atria Books
Synopsis (By Way of Front Flap): "Every life has a soundtrack. All you have to do is listen.
Music has set the tone for most of Zoe Baxter’s life. There’s the melody that reminds her of the summer she spent rubbing baby oil on her stomach in pursuit of the perfect tan. A dance beat that makes her think of using a fake ID to slip into a nightclub. A dirge that marked the years she spent trying to get pregnant.
For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.
In the aftermath of a series of personal tragedies, Zoe throws herself into her career as a music therapist. When an unexpected friendship slowly blossoms into love, she makes plans for a new life, but to her shock and inevitable rage, some people-even those she loves and trusts most-don’t want that to happen.
Sing You Home is about identity, love, marriage, and parenthood. It’s about people wanting to do the right thing for the greater good, even as they work to fulfill their own personal desires and dreams. And it’s about what happens when the outside world brutally calls into question the very thing closest to our hearts: family."
Why I Wanted to Read It: I'd remembered reading one of Picoult's other books as a teenager and liking it and I heard she was actually going to start writing for a re-launch of Wonder Woman in the comics.
How I Liked It: Is there any mainstream, popular author that's as trite as Jodi Picoult? It is possible, more or less (Stephen King, Dan Brown), albeit Picoult's brand of triteness is enough to make many writers' work look "wild". In the years since I've read Salem Falls, I'd manage to forget her proclivity for Mad Libs-esque cultural references that read like Swiss cheese stitched together with People magazine, as well as Picoult's reliance on sitcom level banter and cheap, Hallmark-commercial sentiment. Stock characters abound, obviously.
The book's intended theme, judging by the packaging (each chapter is organized like a track listing and the book has an accompanying CD with original music by Picoult written for each chapter), is the power of music. The central protagonist is a music therapist and her tendency to see everything in terms of beats, rhythms, and vocals (whilst clutching her ever-present iPod) would cement the fact that this is supposed to be a book about music whose central character happens to discover she's in love with a woman. Unlike Dearest Anne, a story of coming of age and struggling to find a personal narrative that happens to have a same-sex romance at its the core of the plot, Sing You Home is a book that is all about GAY RIGHTS and maybe there's some music to do with that. The funny thing is the fact that Dearest Anne is largely held up by critics as a sort of example whereas Sing You Home appears to be considered for the story itself (in fairness, it's a brand new book and not the international sensation that Dearest Anne was, and therefore subject to far less scrutiny).
So what if, to put aside the entire packaging by the author, we make the theme of this story not about music, but about gay rights? (I stress the term gay rights, even though the term LGBTQ is used occasionally, since the rather monosexist approach is a fair exclusion to at least one of the letters.) As a gay rights novel, it's cringe-worthy. Despite all the talk of dismissing stereotypes, male gays characters discussed in the novel are quick with flourishes and a "Fabulous!", and the main character's love interest hates skirts and make-up and wears super-short, no-fuss hair. Also, and this is perhaps nit-picking, there is the monosexism. The main character, after being divorced by her husband for their procreative differences, falls in love with her best friend, and thus realizes since she is in love with a woman, she is gay. Her previous sexual feelings towards men are never really considered, although she recalls a childhood crush and a kiss from a female friend. And what gay it is! How the world changes after the main character has her "revelation"! All falls into place, of course, and she accepts a "lesbian" identity. If we were to substitute the word "queer" for "lesbian" (which the author does not), "queer" being used as a synonym for "LGBT community", perhaps the main character's enthusiasm would be easier to both accept and understand. But the idea that she might be bisexual (or anything other than rock-solidly lesbian) is never discussed. She all but buys a gay membership card (Picoult's setting is really that simplistic) when she finds herself attracted to a woman.
And with the monosexism comes some flat-out sexism and general what-the-fuckery. When we get around to the first sexual encounter, we find the following:
“Everyone wants to know what the sex is like.
It's different from being with a man, for all the obvious reasons, and many more that you'd never imagine. For one thing, it's more emotional, and there's less to prove. There are moments that are soft and tender, and others that are raw and intense-- but as not as if there's a guy to play the dominant role and a girl to play the passive one. We take turns being protected, and being the protector.
Sex with a woman is what you wish it was with a man but it rarely seems to be: all about the journey, and not the destination. It's foreplay forever. It is the freedom to not have to suck in your stomach or think about cellulite. It is being able to say, that feels good and, more important, that doesn't. I will admit that, at first, it was strange to curl up in Vanessa's arms when I was used to resting against a muscular chest-- but the strangeness wasn't unpleasant. Just unfamiliar, as if I'd suddenly moved to the rainforest after living in the desert. It is another kind of beautiful.
Sometimes when a male colleague finds out I am with Vanessa, I can see it in his eyes-- the expectation that every night is a girl-on-girl porn video. My current sex life is no more like that than my former one was like a love scene with Brad Pitt. I could sleep with a man again, but I don't think I'd enjoy it, or feel as safe, or as daring. So if I am not filled by Vanessa-- in the literal sense, anyway-- I am fulfilled by her, which is way better.” (pgs 203 and 204)
Okay, let's suppose that Picoult is truly writing in character, despite the fact that voice is of her central character, the novel's protagonist. The book is told in three voices, that of the main character, Zoe, her husband who divorces her, Max, and her new love and eventual wife, Vanessa. As to be expected, Max and Vanessa's chapters are shorter and less in-depth, but their tones of puzzling out the world around them are somewhat similar. Max, who becomes a born-again Christian, discusses in a similar fashion the feeling of what it means to accept Jesus, therefore suggesting that Zoe's monologue above is somehow meant to be not as divorced from reality as it actually is.
But.
Although the "Christians" in this book are intolerant zealots, Max's description of his feelings of faith contain nothing offensive or hateful.
Still, if we are putting gay rights at the forefront (which the author clearly is), those paragraphs are still intensely offensive as well as ignorant. The author is straight, but I'm sure she's done "plenty" of research about lesbians and the queer woman identity. Or, you know, not. While I'm sure there are some women for whom the above happens to ring true, I'm willing to wager that most would be just as squicked as I am.
Picoult attempts a decent point with the "fantasy" angle, a frequent thorn in the side of queer women everywhere. But it's clumsy. Her sex with her wife, if she's doing it right, is a porno/fantasy experience, just the same as the sex with her husband should've been a porno/fantasy experience. The different between the two is that you'll find damn few people with a heterosexual "boy-on-girl" fetish, for whom the idea of two attractive heterosexuals would be as titillating as a cinematic love scene.
But the sexism is what really gets to me. As Dan Savage, who happens to be gay, would happily tell Picoult and her misinformed fictional character, if you have a partner, male or female, that doesn't foster an environment of you being able to speak your sexual likes and dislikes, you mention it, you do not chalk it up to some Mars and Venus garbage. To say nothing of the roles that Picoult apparently assigns to men and women. And filled "in the literal sense"? Not to be crude, but I'm guessing the couple badly needs to expand their repertoire; even midde-school kids know what a dildo is.
What's annoying the most is perhaps the fact Picoult markets all of this as somehow progressive-- the characters aren't stereotypical because she talks about stereotypes! There is no one way because she mentions there is no one way!
Characters, dialog, "research"-- how about the story itself? At over four-hundred fifty pages, we're left with retreading plenty on some story arcs whilst leaving some seemingly plot-pivotal ones abruptly dropped altogether or all-too-neatly tied up in the final chapter.
So is there anything that redeems this novel? Well, there's a reason why Picoult is popular-- her books are readable. Even if the dialog can be so snappily insufferable you're gagging, even if the "research" she did is faulty, the plot more or less chugs along at a readable rate. It's not so much that you're particularly invested in the characters-- they're far too stock for that-- it's that the settings become relatively familiar enough that it's a little like accidentally turning on a sitcom you'd previously deemed was insipid one night and ending up watching it and then continuing to watch it.
There's an undeniably homey sort of quality (which quickly and frequently veers into triteness) in Picoult's writing. It's a shame it can't be better channeled and controlled.
Notable: Characteristic of the Mad Libs style of inserting current figures in pop culture into dialog, Zoe's Boomer-aged mother offers the following in arguing in favor of her "hipness":
"Do I look like a senior, for God's sake? I color my hair religiously. I have an elliptical machine. I gave up Brian Williams for Jon Stewart." (pg. 16)
Only those who know little to nothing about the show put forth Stewart as a news anchor, obviously.