You're a big girl now

So here's something I never thought I'd say (or write): I was reading an interview with Danielle Steel in USA Today.

It was tied into her new book, Big Girl, in which the main character "struggles with her weight, body image and self-esteem from childhood through her 20s." Okay. If there's a cheesy romance to be found in any subject, chances are Danielle Steel will dig it out. But as I read through the interview, it started to feel insulting--specifically, Steel's answers to the insipid questions about her inspiration in writing about a fat heroine. Oh, and about her expertise on weight issues (she gained weight during pregnancy. Twice!).

If you replaced "overweight" with any kind of "other"ness in the piece, would this be such a breezy book feature? If this were a white author writing about a black character, a male author writing about a female character--would we be patting her on the back for making such a noble choice? I don't think we would. So doing it here feels hollow.

"Books are always written about beautiful people who find other beautiful people, but most people are regular people, and weight is an issue for a lot of them. I thought, it must be a drag to always have beautiful people highlighted in books. Why not make a heavier woman the star of the show?"

Why not, indeed? But hey, here's a thought: why not write a heavier heroine without fetishizing it in the title, or making her weight the central issue of the book?

"If you notice, I do not have Victoria lose weight by the end of the book, but she gets a great guy."

Congrats. A great guy, no less! It must have been agonizing to write a romantic lead character with such an obvious flaw!

Steel clearly means well, but it's still ridiculous to treat this as a bold choice. Even if Bridget Jones hadn't already jumpstarted the whole "he loves me just as I am" fairytale trope fourteen years ago, this would still feel cliched. Steel asks the right question ("why no overweight heroines?"), but answers it in the most shallow and pandering way possible.

And then there's the cover. While Steel is fighting the good fight for "big girls" everywhere and graciously allowing them to appear lovable, what image is chosen to represent all of this? A model-perfect face, licking an ice cream spoon. Because we can't show an overweight girl on the cover--heavens, no. That might scare the natives. It reminded me a little of last year's cover controversy, where jackets were whitewashed to be more "appealing." Apparently brown people and fat people are literary kryptonite on the shelves. Who knew?

Clearly, this is what I get for continuing to read past "Danielle Steel" and "USA Today." Chances are that nothing good was ever gonna come of that. But this was particularly irksome and disheartening.

Remnick on Obama

Good news, everyone! David Remnick is going to write an Obama biography. Sounds like interesting stuff: private interviews, historical research, the signature Remnick writing style. Should be a good read, if probably not the next Game Change. The New York Times tells us all about it.

But...what's this? At the bottom? In sheepish "Correction" italics?

An earlier version of this post misquoted Mr. Remnick on his comparison between the book and a New Yorker article he had previously written. He said the book would not be a "pumped up" version of the article; he did not say that it would not be a “pimped out” version of the article.

Pimped. Out. A presidential biography, written by the editor-in-chief of The New Yorker. It's okay, Gray Lady. I wish he'd really said it too.

Better Know a Classic - Little Women

Joey: Uh, Rach? These...these little women...
Rachel: Yeah?
Joey: How little are they? I mean, are they, like, scary little?

Louisa May Alcott's Little Women was one of my favorites as a kid. I knew it was kinda hokey even then, but I loved the sweet, wholesome New Englandness of it. Why didn't I have Lincoln-supporting, all-knowing parents who steered us through genteel poverty with a smile and life lessons? Where was my saintly and consumptive sister, sacrificing herself at home while the rest of us went gallivanting off into the world? And where the heck was the inexplicable houseservant, a remnant of our prewar glory (before Papa made that vaguely catastrophic investment we don't talk about)? Suburban, middle-class Connecticut seemed decidedly un-noble in comparison.

I read the book again in middle school (around the time the very good Gillian Armstrong adaptation came out)--but hadn't really touched it since. And I don't know that I would have any time soon, if I hadn't fooled around with the Kindle app on my iPod and downloaded it for free. But I did, and got engrossed, even on the tiny screen.

At this point, the sisters are the most compelling reason to read (and revisit) the book. Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy are basically tropes, but entertaining ones. Jo's the tomboy writer; Meg is the matronly sister ultimately fulfilled by husband and kids; Amy is the worldly, selfish one; and Beth is the Dead One. But it's easy to see how they would have been somewhat refreshing in the 1870s--all four get distinct personalities and are loved for their foibles, even if they're all ultimately validated by men in the long run.

As for the writing itself, well....The saddest aspect of my reread is that it's now official: I can't digest purely sentimental writing anymore. Some may say it's because I'm dead inside; others may speculate it's because all I seem to read these days are cynical modern male writers. But either way, I now lack the necessary sense of whimsy you need to be enchanted by the idea of gentle Christian feminism/transcendentalism. And the loss of that sense makes me feel a little sad, and uncomfortably cynical. But I just don't have the patience anymore for Victorian ideals and games.

I was also a little surprised to find my sympathies realigned. Before, I'd always sided with Jo, and lamented her rejection of her best friend and would-be lover, Laurie. This time, I found myself bored by her "I'm an independent tomboy, whee!" character--and rooting for Amy, the sister I'd traditionally liked the least. Jo talks a good game, but Amy's the one who actually pursues her ambitions (first art, then marrying well--the girl has goals!). She's the one who evolves the most out of any of the characters, a point I'd never noticed before. So by the time Jo turned Laurie down, I was already over it and ready for him to hook up with her sister. (Spoiler alert!)

And Beth, well...she still dies. (Spoiler alert #2!) But her final moments are sweet and touchingly written, and illustrate why Little Women endures. It's hard to stay truly dead inside when Beth's running out the clock and being brave for her family. Alcott makes her gentle moralizing so easy to read--very insidious.

Anyway, the best reason to read Little Women is not the fact that Alcott was way ahead of the curve on many social issues of the day (though she was). It's not the idea that we need to return to an ironclad, Victorian system of goodness and grace and civility. It's the idea that a story of a family, simply told, is more powerful than even my cynicism.