[daisygrrl]

I just finished reading Martha O’Conner’s Bitch Posse. Yes, it unequivocally challenges what “chic lit” is—by its preface and conclusion, and it’s “content.” It’s been about three hours since I completed the novel, but I’m still impassioned. And maybe not in the best of ways. Yes, I adored the characters, the plot (or, rather, the supposed, dramatic “pinnacle”)— I predicted. But, I felt depressed and angered during the entire ordeal [and I choose the word “ordeal”] of reading the novel—and maybe that was the point. The novel, to me, feels like a compilation of Duncan Lois (Killing Mr. Griffin and Daughters of Eve, in particular) and any one of Carol Oates’ pieces [I’m thinking of her short story, “Where are you going, Where have you been?”—one of my favorites, in particular]. I’m aggravated, I think (in particular), because I expected to feel empowered by reading this text; instead, I feel like I’ve listened to an entire oeuvre of a music artist and still none-the-wiser—about the artist or myself. Maybe I expect too much from fiction, but I am totally dismayed.

Aggravated bibliophile (or am i just all punk?!),
D---