Sheryl Sorrentino

The Middle of Somewhere by Sonja Yoerg
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Middle of Somewhere paints a dazzling, realistic picture of backpacking through Yosemite along the John Muir Trail—a three-week, 220-mile undertaking. Sonja Yoerg reminds us that out in the wilderness, there’s no room for lies or secrets. One's soul is bared. Our human need for one another—both physically and emotionally—is raw, unmasked by the distraction of technological gizmos or the false security afforded by our so-called civilization. One tender and poetic line pretty much sums it up: "She and Dante, alone in the middle of nowhere, with the truth." Liz and Dante recognize that they must put their differences aside in favor of survival, but will their hearts and bodies remain intact at the end of this adventure?

Liz is a different sort of woman: serious, handy, curious, independent. But she is harboring two big secrets—one pertaining to her relationship with Dante and the other involving her deceased husband, Gabriel. My biggest criticism is that Liz’s back story isn’t always well-woven into the present-day action and often reads like an “information dump.” My second quibble is that I grew impatient with her fear of thunderstorms, which I found gratuitous given how she breaks the “helpless female” mold in so many other ways. But when I got to that harrowing scene along a treacherous mountaineering trail in the middle of a thunderstorm, with lighting striking all around (“A deafening crack, resounding so close it trembled through the ground and up through the soles of Liz’s boots”), that changed my mind in a hurry!

Indeed, the depictions of this laborious trek are so convincing, I suffered the same fatigue and tedium I would have if I were actually hiking alongside Liz and Dante. Although the detailed descriptions can grow a little tiresome, they are central to the story. The natural setting lays the groundwork for events to follow. The Middle of Somewhere artfully engages the reader’s senses and emotions for better or worse, while Liz carries the full weight of her secrets in that leaden backpack. And rather than lighten her load when she—finally, slowly, and painfully—confesses, the realistic fallout is palpable and contaminates the remainder of their journey like radioactive material. Combined with the tension created by the menacing and creepy Root brothers (excellent, if a bit fantastic), we worry for Liz’s physical and mental well-being the entire way.

I think the comparison to Deliverance is fitting with one big difference: The Middle of Somewhere interweaves elements of danger and suspense into a tale of personal discovery within the context of a troubled relationship. The result is gripping and scary! Without revealing any spoilers too blatantly, this book's big strength is the understated moral dilemma faced by Liz throughout her journey: What right, if any, does a man have to know that a woman has conceived his child? What say, if any, ought he have in deciding the outcome of that pregnancy? As Liz realizes too late, while women through biological imperative have the ultimate say, this power is not to be wielded lightly or impulsively. And if we make that mistake, do we still deserve forgiveness and love? For his part, Dante grapples with an equally vexing and related question: Under these harsh, extenuating conditions, what obligation does a man have to “stick by” the woman who has so hurt and betrayed him?

Liz and Dante must face these daunting emotional challenges along with the often treacherous terrain. Throughout their arduous three-week voyage, the ever-changing trail is an apt outer symbol of their shared-yet-parallel inner journeys.

Story endings are tricky, and difficult to “nail.” Personally, I found the ending to be a bit of a quick "wrap-up" job that included a rather implausible explanation of who the Root brothers were and what they were doing on that trail. Other critical events—like Liz’s injury—likewise left me scratching my head. (How could she keep on hiking, much less carry her heavy pack, after that happened?) But in the end, despite its flaws, The Middle of Somewhere shines like “the nearly full moon [that] made the river run silver.” A highly emotional, gut-wrenching and powerful work, “exciting” doesn’t begin to describe some of its scenes. Meanwhile, a difficult process of personal growth and self-discovery cement the two main characters’ love for one another in a way that gives this story substance and sticking power. Although far from “perfect,” The Middle of Somewhere had me hooked. What more can we ask of an author?




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So Much for That by Lionel Shriver
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Lionel Shriver is one of a small handful of authors whose workI consistently love—no matter how far one novel might stray from the next. In So Much for That, Shriver takes on midlife malaise, mesothelioma and the medical industry (and make no mistake, U.S. “health care” is all about industry). Her prose is scathing, angry, and unfailingly witty. I can see why certain reviewers hated this book; it is admittedly depressing. Shriver’s characters are all unlikeable in one way or other, and at times unbelievable, to boot. They serve as mouthpieces for all that is wrong with this country and its overabundance of meaningless diversions, paid or unpaid. But I, for one, laud this author for tackling the nasty underside of our counterfeit, largely-pointless way of life in such a deliciously entertaining manner.

Shriver takes no prisoners. Protagonist Shep is a poster child for the delusional “do-righter” who believes that if you toe the line and follow the rules, your reward will come in the “afterlife”—not in the Heavenly sense, but by having a sufficiently large nest egg to leave one’s mundane woes behind in favor of a simpler existence in some far-flung and less expensive recess of Earth. (I confess—this is my plan, too, albeit right here in California, so this book struck a personal chord.) His friends and coworkers think he’s nuts, and in the end, his wife, Glynis, throws a wrench in this formerly shared goal by developing mesothelioma (that stubborn cancer caused by asbestos).

Glynis is anything but the peaceful, angelic loved one coming to terms with impending death—she’s crass, selfish, dishonest, and abusive toward her well-meaning husband and the few friends and family members who dare to visit her. But her attitude rings more true than trite in a way we usually don’t glimpse in novels. If that weren’t enough for Shep to contend with, there’s his artistic mooch of a sister, his aging, fecally-incontinent father, and a best friend and former employee (Jackson) who is a tiresome boor. Though Jackson is one-dimensional in his rants (in this regard, he reminds me very much of my own brother), the sad thing is that everything he says about everything is true, in particular the medical system. His own daughter, Flicka, is living with familial dysautonomia, or FD—a rare genetic disorder found among Ashkenazi Jews. Flicka is a painful sight—a drooling, stooping, tearless teen with an access “port” in her stomach much like the spout of an orange juice container.

As you can see, this is not a book for the faint of heart; light entertainment it ain’t. So Much for That is more the literary equivalent of being roused by a printed-word defibrillator. Nonetheless, if you can stand 400 or so pages of large and small jolts, the ending, while a bit far-fetched, is a glorious triumph of the little guy. It celebrates the joy to be found in simply managing life and death on one’s own terms.

I don’t usually give books five stars, but this one deserves it. Besides showcasing Shriver’s trademark luminous prose, at its core, So Much for That pays long-overdue homage to certain fundamental truths: the primacy of terminal illness (the fight against which she likens to battling the weather); the impermanence of our Earthly existence (despite our stubborn fairy-tale denials to the contrary); and the exorbitant, torturous and ultimately ineffective medical “weapons” we employ—at astronomical cost—to do nothing more than distract us from the finality and supremacy of death (while conveniently bankrupting its victims in the process). It is a face-slapping wake-up call to those of us fortunate enough to be well, yet audacious enough to complain. For many readers, its message—that suffering and death are inevitable and exempt no one—will be unwelcome and best stuffed under the sofa along with lost change and potato chip crumbs. But for the rest of us, its reminder to live life—now, fully, and genuinely—is a welcome admonishment to appreciate our short time on Earth while we revel in our precious health. Personally, I loved every minute of this ride.


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A Place in the World by Cinda Crabbe MacKinnon


A Place in the World tells the story one woman’s life from the 1960s onward.

First, the positives: The author creates a beautiful setting (she could write for Condé Nast!). She makes the reader feel like we’re on an adventure vacation in the Colombian Andes getting an authentic taste of life on a remote coffee finca located adjacent to the rain forest. While I think the book perhaps could have done with a tad less emphasis on botany, the narrative descriptions do lay the groundwork for a gripping and believable finale. I could feel bugs crawling on my skin; felt my own mounting panic as I envisioned myself in a similar situation to Alicia (the protagonist). I could feel her hunger and disorientation, shared her dread of spending a night alone, lost in darkness. MacKinnon masterfully blurs the lines between one “dimension” and the next—the sort of spiritual melding that occurs in any life-and-death face-off against nature and her mysterious energies. Because of this, Alicia’s last-minute epiphany regarding her companion (Peter) was both touching and convincing. If the story lagged a bit in the middle, the climatic ending should not be missed.

Personally, I found the occasional point-of-view shifts somewhat jarring and confusing—if intentional. Mainly Alicia is telling her story; then, out of the blue, here and there we hear from the father-in-law (Felipe) and I forget who all else—even the dog! That said, it was an inventive (if odd) creative choice, and I admit I rather enjoyed getting inside that mangy old mutt’s head as he added a sweet and enchanting aspect to the story.

Cinda MacKinnon’s experience living in Latin America obviously gave her insight to craft a picturesque backdrop of Colombian life and culture, into which she skillfully wove a multifaceted tale imbued with personal, societal and political shades. All in all, a worthwhile and enjoyable read.


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Reading a novel can—and should—be sensual, intimate, and engaging. Through the written word, readers spend time with fictional characters and take in their struggles, desires, and conflicts. A good story with convincing characters will draw readers into another dimension—a fictional getaway that resonates so viscerally, readers want to visit again and again. This phenomenon is very much like falling in love, and can be almost as compelling, which is why good writers strive to give readers that same wonderful experience. Just as people “lose themselves” in love, readers, too, want to experience a state of emotional exigency and abandon. Isn’t that precisely why one chooses a particular work of fiction?

It is now well-recognized that “falling in love” has both mental and chemical components. Scientists have identified several “feel good” chemicals associated with being “swept away” in love: oxytocin, serotonin, and dopamine. You want those same “happy chemicals” to kick into overdrive when readers crack open your novel. We also know that pheromones are crucial in order for a love bond to occur. Readers likewise need visual, aural, and olfactory stimulus to put them “in the mood” to forget, even for a brief time, that they are sufferers of the human condition.

You want your readers to look forward to experiencing your fictional characters as if reuniting with a cherished love one. How do you accomplish this? First and foremost, engage readers’ senses: Feed them chocolate-dipped strawberries; put on soft background jazz and give them a whiff of heady cologne—whatever is appropriate to your story and setting. Then make it easy for readers to relate to and empathize with your characters. Not only must you invite readers inside their lovely fictional world; once over the threshold, your protagonist and other characters must continually court and woo readers by sharing their inner workings and gradually revealing what they are about.

To have readers connect with your characters’ unique circumstances, you must place readers front-and-center inside their “emotional brain”—the prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus—where your characters “speak” in a natural, genuine, and emotional voice. Make them vulnerable. Don’t fall victim to confusing point-of-view shifts, or dishonest, condescending, or unbelievable narrative. Nobody wants to waste time on a phony or—worse yet—a liar. Give your characters endearing flaws (nobody likes a "Polly-perfect"), but make their forgivable little idiosyncrasies and “blind spots” understandable to your target audience. One sure-fire way of doing this is to give glimpses into a less-than-ideal childhood. Even the most hardened criminal can garner sympathy by relaying the traumatic boyhood experience of witnessing his crazy, obese grandma stepping on his beloved puppy’s head.

But don’t forget to make readers laugh, no matter how sad or dark your plot. At the end of the day, people read fiction for entertainment, so there must be moments of levity and wit. Isn’t this how an otherwise “so-so” suitor gets his foot in the front door? Once “hooked,” readers will think about your characters in between sittings and will yearn to get back with them.

Of course, there are the practical things to consider. As with any new “love object,” your book must be accessible and physically attractive. In marketing terms, this means it must be readily available and “look good,” i.e., have an appealing cover and be free of typos, grammatical errors, or formatting glitches—the literary equivalent of zits, clothing stains, and bad breath. No matter how many other wonderful qualities your book might have, readers' eyes will be relentlessly drawn to these avoidable flaws. So take the time to “primp” and check the mirror before your grand debut. Engage beta readers, designers, and editors. Budget as much as you can to make the best possible impression, and you will avoid these sure-fire turnoffs.

Many people believe there is a spiritual component to love—something transcendent and inspirational. An exceptional work of fiction will also have this quality. If possible, weave in a higher message of human altruism, connectedness, or faith. Not only will readers lose themselves in your words; they will feel elevated, enlightened, and inspired. Your prose can literally take readers to a higher vibrational frequency, and if this happens, they will come away richer for the experience. A profoundly stirring work can haunt readers for days, weeks, or even years.

But as is true of love, timing (and a little luck) is everything. Have you ever found you couldn’t “get into” a book everyone is raving over? Have you ever picked up that same book a month or a year later and discovered it is one of the best things you’ve ever read? Sometimes, readers are simply too busy, too distracted, or too tired take in what you have to offer—they are, in short, not open. In literature as in love, what floats one person’s boat might completely turn off another at any given moment. If your book flops, don’t take it personally. Just get back in the game, put yourself “out there,” and keep trying to achieve that all-important “love connection” (even if it never happens).

Book publishing is a numbers game, and successful writers know they must kiss a few frogs and hang in there until the proverbial check arrives. By identifying and recognizing the attributes of falling in love and incorporating them into your craft, you can ramp up your novel’s allure and increase your odds of standing out from the crowd.

 

Life After Murder: Five Men in Search of Redemption by Nancy Mullane
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I began reading this book with trepidation. I hated “digesting” the stupid, senseless acts that had landed these five guys in prison for life with possibility of parole. Most were murders committed during the course of another crime (e.g., a home invasion robbery, fleeing from a convenience store robbery, etc.). One was particularly brutal (kicking a guy in the head who’d already been robbed and was lying on the ground bleeding). In only one of the five cases could I sort of understand the guy’s motivation and feel somewhat forgiving (he was chasing after his wife’s drug dealer who, along with her, had stolen the man’s car—this after he’d moved, changed jobs, etc. to try and get her clean).

But by the end of the book, I felt grudging respect for these men, along with an equal measure of empathy. They had come so far, and gone through so much, both in prison and out. Each exhibited a work ethic, a capacity for introspection, a belief in God, a desire to seize each moment of what life has to offer. Each wanted to help others avoid the mistakes they had made, and were willing to lay bare to the world who they are and what they’d done in order to accomplish this. And they exhibited these traits irrespective of race or the economic circumstances in which they found themselves following a hard-won release. I have to say, these guys displayed more character, grit and determination than many of the fools we encounter in our everyday lives, and probably have more to offer the world. Precisely because of the crimes they had committed and the decades spent in prison pondering what they had done, they had a deeper, clearer understanding of life’s preciousness along with a longing to make the most of it. Corny as it sounds, I felt honored to be given this glimpse into their lives, and to get to know them in this small way.

As you might imagine, in most cases employment is a huge challenge following release from prison. I believe this is the reason so many parolees commit new crimes—it is nearly impossible to find legitimate employment if you have a prison record. Two of these guys were lucky enough to have maintained long-standing contacts on the outside, or to have family members who could offer a job. Another one or two had girlfriends to pick up the slack. In a couple of cases, the men eventually started their own businesses after finding it impossible to find or maintain employment. In a couple of others, they worked with at-risk youth, sometimes carpooling 100 miles to far-flung locales. But in every single case, there was no loitering or daytime television; hands and feet were in constant motion—painting, gardening, repairing, building, etc., whether for pay or not.

This is not to say that all murderers can be rehabilitated. The real question posed by this book is, if a murderer demonstrates that he has completely turned his life around, should he be let out after serving the determinate part of his sentence? Or should he live out his remaining years behind bars? Unbeknownst to me, the governor has the final say on this matter, and after the Willie Horton case in Massachusetts (the one that derailed Michael Dukakis’ chances for the presidency in 1988), there is no political “upside” to a governor paroling a prisoner, even after the parole board has recommended a prisoner for release. If the original sentence allows for the possibility of parole, and a prisoner has demonstrated to an extremely exacting parole board that he has met the requirements for release, it seems to me unconstitutional for a governor to have the right to second-guess both the original jury and the parole board. I also think it is cruel and inhuman to find a lifer eligible for parole after he’s served, say, a 25-year sentence, then make him wait another 150 days only to take that away, and to repeat this nearly futile process every few years, over and over again. If you’re going to keep a guy in jail for life, then sentence him to life without the possibility of parole in the first place. To create false hope time and again is plain rotten and has no bearing on the original crime or its punishment.

As for the underlying issue of whether to parole or not: On the one hand, these men killed people. Their victims don't get a second chance after 15 or 20 or 25 years. The families and friends of the deceased don’t get another chance, either—their loved one is gone forever. Is it not fair that the person responsible for taking a human life pay a commensurate price? But on the other hand—and this is where it gets tricky—if a certain proportion of convicted killers have turned themselves around to where they probably have more to offer society than your average joe in the way of wisdom, compassion, and a desire to serve and contribute, are we really better off housing them in prison for the rest of their natural lives (to the tune of $50,000 to $100,000 of yearly taxpayer dollars), or trying to re-integrate them into society? This is a moral question I think we must ask ourselves. To me, it boils down to whether, as a society, we want to be forgiving or retributive.

On a more mundane note, I gave this book three stars because the writing was mostly dry and there were too many extraneous parts that could have been cut. For those reasons, I found it to be a tough read, but I hung in there to get to the crux of these important issues regarding incarceration, and because I came to feel a connection to these men and wanted to see how their stories turned out. Nancy Mullane eventually gets her point across, and by the end of the book got me to the point where I felt the same kinship to these five men as she did. For that reason, I would say it is a worthwhile read.


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Most young people no longer install land lines when they get their first apartment. They often live in short-term housing; their finances are tight; and they grew up relying on mobile devices and simply don't know any better. But many older folks, too, are getting rid of home phones they've had for years. I say, please don’t!

Don’t get me wrong: Cell phones are a fantastic invention. They have earned a prominent foothold in our day-to-day lives and changed the fabric of how we communicate. But cell phones are about as personal as a crowded supermarket, due to both the radio-based technology and the surroundings in which they are often [over]used. Unless I have something quick and urgent to tell you (as in, “can you pick me up some socks while you’re at Target?”), I’d prefer not to share the intimacies of life while you’re distracted paying for your groceries, trying not to crash your car, or maneuvering down a crowded street.

True, your cell phone lets you call me from just about anywhere, and I can likewise reach you anytime, anyplace. It has enabled friends and family to carve time out of busy days to stay in closer touch than ever before. But because we can now interrupt whatever we are doing in the “outside world,” the result is about as reliable as we should expect—an inferior, unnatural connection that is frequently lost mid-sentence for no reason and without warning.

I want to know I can reach you at home, not "page" you wherever you might happen to be. I want to picture you at your kitchen island sipping coffee from a chipped mug, or in your living room with your feet propped on a cluttered coffee table, or out in your backyard, perhaps pulling some overgrown weeds. There is something intimate about chatting on a land line; it’s private time when secrets can be shared. (Last I checked, cops still need a warrant to tap one.) Talking on a cell is like the difference between a cup of tea at your place vs. meeting up at Starbucks. The former is purposeful, reflective, and intimate—a private engagement, however brief or spontaneous. The latter is public, earsplitting, and chaotic—an open event, however well-planned. And whether you realize it or not, you have to shout to be heard, just as you must raise your voice above the din of a barista's milk frother. (That’s why everyone around you is shooting you those dirty looks.)

Face it: Not having a home phone says something about you. When the land line goes, you become just a little less trustworthy, a little more flaky. Your home is a symbolically transitory place where you stop off but never roost, sort of like a hotel. A land line is part of what makes where we live home, just like a cozy bed, an overstuffed sofa, or a luxurious bathtub. It tethers us to a particular place by offering a permanent connection to the outside world. Cell phones, on the other hand, enable us to be transient.

Home phones have an air of permanence. They used to sit atop special tables, with thick telephone books stowed beneath. Or they were secured to the wall, perhaps in the kitchen by the all-important fridge. There were often notepads conveniently located nearby, to take crucial messages. Even though most land lines are now cordless, before ditching yours, think of all that rich history you will be throwing away along with it. Have you tossed your cherished family photo albums simply because you can now store your memories in digital format?

Phones also have a venerable history as the family’s hub to the outside world. Because they are generally communal instruments (whereas cell phones are narcissistic ones), children still have to be taught phone manners before being allowed to answer the ringing device. Learning to place and receive calls is weighty business, with an etiquette all its own; the person answering doesn’t know if the call will be for her or someone else. S/he might have to cover the mouthpiece and call a parent or older sibling. Answering the phone is an important rite of passage, a task to be treated with the solemnity of a switchboard operator. No similar care need be taken with one's own high-tech walkie-talkie.

I, for one, like making and receiving calls to numbers that make sense, not those newfangled area codes no one’s heard of, whose only purpose is to provide fresh three-digit combos to an unmanageable quantity of iThingies. Worse yet is the “leftover” area code kept by one who has moved far from home. Not only are those people impermanent; they're enigmatic. Where are they from, with that strange area code? What are they doing here, and how long do they plan on staying? If I get close to one of you, will you return to Chicago or San Diego or wherever you really belong? It may be convenient to keep your old phone number, but it tells me you’re not really here—not yet.

Think about your very first phone number. I’ll bet it’s emblazoned on your brain as clearly as your first day of kindergarten (when you were probably forced to memorize it). If you’re as old as I am, your phone number began with a place name, making the exercise a sweet, sing-song ritual of childhood. Most cell phone numbers are a mishmash of meaningless digits. How’s a four-year-old supposed to remember that? (Oh, I forgot—they don’t have to; they now have cell phones of their own, with the important numbers pre-programmed.)

Relying 100% on your cell phone is like subsisting on fast food. Sure, it’s cheap and convenient. But cooking at home is one of those elemental things that makes you a person of substance—someone I can trust. You like the smell of garlic sautéeing or the sound of the mixer whirring while you bake with your kids. You don’t mind a few dishes piled in the sink afterward. Please don’t disconnect your land line; I want to call you at home while you’re trying to fix dinner.

I generally don’t post negative reviews, whether I am in the minority or the majority. I know firsthand how upsetting it feels to be on the receiving end of them, and have often asked myself why readers would feel compelled to post harsh criticisms unless they’re purely peeved. (In those instances when I don’t like a book, I mark it “read” on Goodreads  with no rating and leave it at that.) I therefore hope I will not get “trashed” for voicing a minority view on this one; I do so only to explain my three-star rating on Goodreads, and with the stipulation that these are just my own opinions.

Like many of the low-star reviewers, I really wanted to love this book because it was recommended to me by a friend and colleague. But it did not hold my interest and I found myself not especially wanting to return to it. I kept at it, though, because I expected it to improve and wanted to have the complete picture before rendering judgment. In the end, for me it fell flat.


The writing, while sometimes clever and often humorous, utterly lacked any richness of emotion. I think that is why I could not get engaged, despite the sometimes attention-grabbing goings-on. The author cloaks some rather horrific events with an opaque mask of what I believe to be desensitization. For example, her mother supposedly shot her boyfriend, Hector, but in the next scene, he is perfectly fine and we are back to shenanigans. The mother nearly drove her two kids purposefully off a bridge escaping a tornado, and yet, other than the author’s internal confusion in doubting what had just happened, they arrived at their destination moments in front of the storm no worse for wear. Did these things actually happen that way, or were they supposed to be the product of an overactive childhood imagination? This was not entirely clear to me, and I think in order for such scenes to pack punch, they have to be described in such a way that the reader can connect with why it mattered enough to the protagonist (in this case, the author) to tell about it.

In a similar vein, the terror the author felt for her grandmother was somehow not relatable, despite the fact that Karr presents her as a frightful character and the climax at the end (regarding her prosthetic leg) was rather jolting. Again, despite good writing, some indefinable element was missing that caused the entire thing to fall flat.

I agree with several reviewers that these parents, while quirky, unstable, and substance-addicted, were not abusive per se, but were like many parents: well-intentioned, loving, and often genuinely endearing, but addled by their own issues. In this regard, I saw many similarities with Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, and must agree that is by far a superior book in this genre.

I found the neat little “wrap-up” at the end to be a rather rushed and academic recitation of events meant to tie the whole lukewarm muddle together and justify that the mother was genuinely crazy. Presented that way, it fizzled even while providing legitimate answers. By that point, the answers were almost superfluous. I think this explanation could have been handled much better if it hadn’t been tagged on like an afterthought.

Finally, I agree with other reviewers that many of the events recounted in this book were tedious and extraneous, and made it boring in places. That said, there are two graphic scenes that stand out, those being the instances of childhood sexual abuse. Though well-written, the first was blighted by the author’s real-time rant against her perpetrator. Don’t get me wrong, Karr is more than justified in harboring feelings of anger and resentment, but her memoir is not an appropriate public forum for such a personal censure. The second scene, though less inherently violent, is the more unsettling of the two because of the creepy, twisted, and languidly realistic (yet bizarrely artistic) depiction of this horrendous event. Though I almost couldn’t go on reading, because of the powerful realism and captivating writing, I must sourly elevate this book from three to three-and-a-half stars, even if that blasted emotional component remained stubbornly absent. Perhaps that is simply what happens when a child suffers this type of abuse at the hands of an adult.

This hidden gem deals with the current vexing topic of kids “sexting,” that is, posting and sending unflattering sexual pictures and videos of themselves over the internet. Fifteen-year-old Jake Bergamot receives just such a video from Daisy, a 13-year-old admirer and schoolmate he meets at a party. In an unthinking moment of bravado, disgust, confusion—we are never quite sure which (indeed Jake himself is never 100% sure), he forwards the email to one of his buddies.

The rest is history as the video quickly goes viral: Jake and Daisy become instant pariahs. Jake’s family must deal with his expulsion from school and the legal ramifications of his having disseminated what amounts to child pornography. His ambitious dad, Richard, wants to “handle” the situation as he would any other pesky problem at work—with a cool head and a plan. Meanwhile, Jake's emotionally-stilted mom, Lizzie, grows ever more depressed as she becomes unwittingly addicted to internet porn while fantasizing about her college TA. And in the midst of all this turmoil, they plop adopted kindergartner, Coco, in front of the TV for weeks on end in an effort to shield her from the unseemly goings on around her, but she quietly absorbs all the toxic fallout nonetheless.

Not only is this the story of the Bergamot family’s collective downfall from one careless “click,” it is a scathing indictment of our communal addiction to electronic gizmos that have turned what was once private and unspoken into “content” for on-demand public consumption. We now have personal, portable, 24/7 access to everything and anything the world once considered bizarre and perverse. Today’s kids consume “screen sex” as readily as earlier generations popped Pez. And all the while, parents are at once too focused on their kids and too concerned about “making it” to consider in any meaningful way the injury these infectious glowing devices are causing their children and families—until it is too late.

Author Helen Schulman best sums up this generational sea change through Richard Bergamot's brooding over his son's fall from grace:

“Richard’s father loved him, too. Dad was a family man. He didn’t live so far from the ground. Dad didn’t focus on him, he didn’t coddle him, he didn’t help him with his homework or take his emotional temperature three times a day or do any of the things Richard and Lizzie do now, along with eating and breathing, as a way of life. Dad loved his boys within reason. Dad’s was a reasonable, conditional love, the condition being that Richard kept his nose clean, that he always did his best, that he conducted himself with honor.

“Richard and Lizzie and the girl’s parents, all the other parents at that school—they are both too close to their children and too far away from the ground. They are too accomplished. They have accumulated too much. They expect too much. They demand too much. They even love their kids too much. This love is crippling in its way.”

If you’ve ever had occasion to wonder, as every generation of parents does, “What’s wrong with kids nowadays?” this passage contains much wisdom and insight. My one quibble with the book is the somewhat jarring (and confusing) shift to third person present tense whenever the author narrates from Richard’s point of view. This was obviously a deliberate choice (the other chapters are consistently third person past tense). Are Richard’s perceptions supposed to be more “immediate” than the other family members’? And if so, why?

That nit-pick aside, Helen Schulman delivers a timely, compelling, and emotionally-charged story in a compact 222 pages. Against the backdrop of a simple, fast-paced tale flowing with artistic prose, she asks—subtly yet stubbornly—“What is technology doing to our kids?” Indeed, we might all take a second to ponder what will become of our lives now that a parallel “virtual universe” has overtaken our minds like an unchecked epidemic.

I haven't blogged for awhile because I've been busy working on my fifth novel, Stop and Frisk. For anyone interested in a sneak preview of my latest story, I would like to share the "pitch" with you. At the rate I am going, this one will not see the light of day until Summer 2015, but hopefully it will be worth the wait!

"Thirty-five year old Paulie Beckwith lost his only remaining family when his brother, Lloyd (a promising young pharmacist) was senselessly gunned down in his prime. Raised in foster care after their mother’s death and father’s incarceration, Paulie isn’t expecting any answers from police—they still haven’t made an arrest two years after Lloyd’s fatal shooting in an alleged robbery-gone-wrong.

Following a stint of heavy drinking and prolonged unemployment, Paulie lands a bouncer job at Insanidad, a roadside strip joint where Lena, his Colombian ex-girlfriend (and love of his life) works as bartender and manager. Six nights per week, he protects pole dancers, breaks up brawls, and pats down the farm workers and drug dealers who patronize this “gentlemen’s club” in the heart of Modesto, California—a town best known for its meth labs and car thefts.

But Paulie’s a peacekeeper with no peace. Grief-stricken by day, Paulie leads a hardscrabble life on rural land he inherited in the middle of nowhere. When not feuding with his lonely neighbor up the road—a gun-loving retired paralegal who believes she’s being haunted by spirits—he talks to his brother’s ashes in the run-down camper where he dwells. Mistrustful by night, Paulie tries to talk Lena out of marrying Hernán, the slick criminal lawyer nearly 30 years her senior whom he instinctively but unaccountably detests. Paulie yearns to declare himself and stop their wedding, but Lena’s ready to settle down—and tired of being “friends with benefits” to a man who’s mired in sorrow, unwilling to commit, and seemingly content “frisking” his favorite exotic dancer. Only when he receives an unexpected visit from Lloyd’s former boss can Paulie begin to face the truth about his brother and untangle the web of deceit linking two seemingly-unrelated but equally vexing characters in his life."


For the many quirky and colorful tales of dance club life that will give this story its realistic texture, I owe special thanks to my Goodreads buddy Ashley, as well as to my brother-the-bouncer (another “regular guy” who, like Paulie, is trying to cope with loss, longing, and loneliness—while keeping groping male hands at bay).

I have a confession to make: I am a huge fan of Long Island Medium, that hoaky reality show featuring Long Island, N.Y. housewife and spitfire extraordinaire, Theresa Caputo. Maybe it’s that big, bleached head of hair, or that infectious, down-to-earth Italian charm (so reminiscent of characters I grew up with), or her tattooed, tough-guy sweetie of a husband. Maybe I’m jealous of her remarkably well-adjusted and supportive (if sometimes snarky) teenagers who good-naturedly indulge having their mom on constant public display and their home and family's whereabouts continually on camera. Whatever the reason, there is something irresistible about this flamboyant television character. But what about her messages? Is there really any substance to the things she tells those bereaved people she meets on the streets? Or are her "readings" as fluffy as that hairdo?

When I am done crying (and yes, every single episode reduces me to tears), I cannot help but notice that she has usually said pretty much the same thing: “Your loved ones are still with you. All that guilt you’re carrying around over such-and-such? S/he wants you to stop that! The day you did that thing you did? Your loved one was there in spirit.” Where are all the dysfunctional S.O.B.’s who laid guilt trips on us throughout their lifetimes? Do they magically become loving and forgiving souls once they pass into the afterlife? (Maybe they do; I’m just asking . . .).

Sometimes—not always—Theresa offers up some validating tidbit or factoid that lends credibility to the spectacle. But who knows what goes on behind the scenes of that show, or how much Theresa has been prepped? Does she really know nothing of what people say during those supposedly off-camera “sidebars?” If I could be on that show, I'd probably spill my guts to the woman in a heartbeat! And how is it that Theresa just happens to have cameras trailing her everyplace she goes—to the nail salon, the gym, on an intimate date with her husband—just in case she feels the urge to “channel spirit?”

Wikipedia calls my lady a “television personality best known for portraying herself as a medium” (my emphasis). But whether or not Theresa is “for real” in the scientific sense, who among us wouldn’t love some validation that there is more to this life than meets the eye—and that certain "chosen ones" have the power to communicate with the “other side?”

Apart from the fact that I miss my departed brother (or perhaps because of it), my latest novel-in-progress (tentatively titled Stop and Frisk) features themes about losing a loved one and coping with the questions and regrets we inevitably feel when someone close to us passes. My main character, Paulie, consults a psychic to provide insights about his brother’s death—a supposedly random act of violence that Paulie suspects was actually a calculated shooting. (I incorporated the scene with the psychic to avoid having the dead brother leave a letter, as was done in The Husband’s Secret and so many other novels. However, my daughter has assured me that using a psychic is an equally trite and “tired” plot device. Sigh ...) I am debating whether to visit a real-life medium to see if I can be convinced one way or the other of their legitimacy. After all, I can justify something I'd otherwise consider a foolish self-indulgence as a valid book research expense.

What do you think, readers? Do you believe in mediums? Do you have a recommendation for a good one in the California Bay Area? Leave a comment and let me know.