The Carrie Diaries by Candace Bushnell (Or, Waiting for Mr. Big)

First off, I have to admit that I haven’t seen the series on the CW, although I’ve read a few snarky posts about it by Tom and Lorenzo, and I don’t feel compelled to watch it. I’ve always kind of thought of Square Pegs as the Sex and the City prequel, and I love the idea of Sarah Jessica Parker’s Patty Greene growing up to be a smart, stylish writer in the city. The Carrie Diaries, however, is surprisingly good. I say surprisingly because I wasn’t all that impressed with *Sex and the City* when I read it several years ago. If I remember correctly, it seemed as though the HBO series had taken fairly thin material and made it into something much more compelling and interesting.

Early on, though, it’s clear that the Carrie Diaries is an engrossing novel, primarily because Bushnell riffs on the idea of Carrie without trying too hard to create a mini-me of her adult self. The high school Carrie has her own life, problems, and interests, and these seem only distantly related to the adult Carrie. I, for one, would have been really annoyed if high school Carrie had been obsessed with shoes, for example. She isn’t: she’s a smart, believable character who is making her way through the drama of high school.

Likewise, she is surrounded by a group of friends who make sense in high school--as opposed, for the most part, to being previews of her later friendships. This is not an ensemble piece, but Carrie's friends and antagonists are a fully realized group of characters who give a sense of a "real" social world. I say this because sometimes the surrounding characters in a novel are largely indistinguishable from each other and you have to keep flipping back to remind yourself whether this is the one with the sick mother or the one who can’t keep a job (or whatever). Bushnell’s skill here is that she creates an engrossing plot *and* set of characters.

That is, except for Mr. trial-run-for-Mr. Big, Sabastian Kydd. Like Mr. Big, he’s more of an idea than a real character. Most of his dialog consists of cliches, and Carrie’s relationship with him is so clearly an ugly break-up waiting to happen that it’s almost a relief when it does. Much of his life is kept a secret--like, why he left private school--but what we see isn’t very interesting.

After the inevitable breakup with Mr. Big-Kydd, Carrie moves to New York. It is here that you can sense the prequel machinery lurching into motion, and I get less interested. The charm of most of the book is that it feels fresh and you don’t quite know what’s going to happen (except for the romance part), but that gets lost when you know exactly what the New York move is leading up to--right down to the last-minute introduction of one of the later characters. For this reason, I’m not sure whether I really want to read the next one, *Summer and the City.* I probably will, though...

Confessions of a Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella

I know this one's been out for a while, but I've only just gotten around to reading it. I understand why Kinsella is so popular--she's expanded on the Bridget Jones formula with a compelling central

character who is both deeply flawed by shallowness and much smarter and more capable.

At the same time that I understand the allure of Kinsella's compulsively readable books, I also find them extremely stressful to read. I almost wasn't able to finish *The Undomestic Goddess* because it made me too anxious. The experience of reading reminded me of watching *I Love Lucy* as a child--whenever Lucy was about to humiliate herself, I'd run out of the room so I didn't have to see it. Likewise, Rebecca Bloomfield, the protagonist, sets herself up for similarly excruciating moments of exposure. This is, of course, a device for creating narrative suspense: an author can create such suspense in a multitude of ways, anywhere from having a character stalked by a mass murderer to overspending on her Visa. If you want to see the literary roots of

the financial plot as narrative device, you have only to look to Trollope. On the whole, though, I enjoyed the characterization of Rebecca more than the agony of her bad choices. The two are inextricable, however, and I was able to enjoy the novel (and its follow-up, *Shopaholic Takes Manhattan*) much more when I realized that everything was going to be okay. Kinsella’s not really interested in punishing her characters, and Becky’s solution to her shopping problem in *Manhattan* is absolutely inspired.

Cuckoo's Calling by J.K. Rowling

As soon as I saw a tweet about JK Rowling's pseudonymous mystery, I wanted to read it, even though I gave up on *The Casual Vacancy* after only a few chapters. Something pseudonymous, presented as a newbie's work, would have undergone much more strenuous editing than her other work, something that I felt had been the major problem with her final Harry Potter books (my husband refers to Deathly Hallows as Harry Potter and the Grumpy Camping Trip). I love mysteries, and I (mostly) loved the Harry Potter books, so I really wanted to give this a try. I was also searching for the perfect airplane book...

Overall, *The Cuckoo’s Calling* is a satisfying mystery, and it also shows Rowling working to develop her craft. The story begins with a hook--not so much about the mystery, which only really gets interesting later, but with the introduction of the lead characters. One of Rowling’s trademarks, or at least in these last two books, is an elaborate device for introducing characters. In *The Casual Vacancy,* the death of one character becomes a lens for introducing others. Likewise, *Cuckoo’s Calling* begins with several elaborate devices to introduce the characters--life-changing events that allow for reflection and a literal crash that brings the protagonists together. It seems like Rowling is trying out these narrative devices, and the opening shows much more thought about the shaping of her narrative than the ending, which is pure exposition.

As for the mystery itself, Rowling is in her element in this book and produces an engrossing puzzle with a plausible solution. Rowling handles suspense well, so that the narrative builds and becomes more absorbing as it moves along. Her central characters are fully fleshed out and are, for the most part, believable. The backstory for the main character, Cormoran Strike, is revealed slowly over the course of the novel in such a way that Rowling presents a double mystery. I do wish that she had done a bit more “showing” rather than “telling” in characterizing his ex-girlfriend, but that is the main area where her characterization falls short.

Since this is the 8th (or, rather, 8 and a halfth) book by Rowling that I've read, I feel like I've got some perspective on her as a writer. I’ve always thought that one unexpected aspect of reading multiple works by an author is the way in which the reader learns about the author’s preoccupations. I first noticed this in junior high school when my guilty pleasure was V.C. Andrews’ novels, which gave me the distinct sense that Andrews was highly suspicious of doctors. Likewise, I’ve been struck by Patricia Cornwell’s detailed interest in home security systems and Barbara Pym's insistence that one should always leave a bath "as they'd like to find it." In *Cuckoo’s Calling,* Rita Skeeter and the predations of the press make another appearance as still darker and more destructive creatures. The tabloid press and its insatiable hunger for information about celebrities becomes another suspect, one that is never exonerated, even if it cannot be held directly responsible. There's a clear sense in this novel of Rowling's own outrage at being hunted by the press. I suspect that the media frenzy over this new novel isn’t going to give her any reason to change her mind.

Reading on my phone

I've always been kind of attached to print books: I collect them, I love the way that they get worn in as you make your way through the text, and I like knowing that the print copy is mine as long as I want it (unless I sell it, loan it to someone, or lose it in a fire or flood). As a librarian and scholar, I also like the permanence of the printed book. I spend a lot of time trying to track down sources that no longer exist or were never collected. Thinking about future researchers, I want some sort of insurance that future researchers will have the materials that they need, and the printed book feels like a kind of promise.

On my most recent vacation, however, I discovered that I also love reading on my phone. Reading on my phone has other kinds of satisfaction: I can try out a multitude of books without having to lug them all in my luggage; I always have a book with me (because I *always* have my phone); and I don't need a light to read when we're all crammed into a tent in the middle of nowhere. As long as I have a connection, I don't have to worry about running out of books.

This is a change in attitude that has been coming on for a long time, and it's most closely tied to travel. Every time I go on a trip, I try to anticipate what I'm going to want to read. And I always guess wrong, mostly because my judgement is muddied by aspirational thinking as I try to select a book that is both enjoyable and professionally useful. Since my field is 19th-century literature, over the years I've stuffed my luggage with a lot of long, generally sentimental novels that I never quite feel like reading once I'm stuck on a plane.

On the other hand, I never try to be serious when I'm picking books to read on my phone. My first choice was P.D. James's *Death Comes to Pemberley,* a book that I *had* to read. Next was Rowling's pseudonymous *Cuckoo's Calling,* an indulgence that got me through a flight from LA to Detroit. Once I discovered that I can borrow Kindle books through my public library, I was hooked. On my most recent vacation, I ignored the modernist novel that I had dutifully brought along and indulged in chick lit and cozies.

This is not to say that I'm leaving print books behind entirely. Phone reading is best for light, beachy reads, and that's not my life most of the time. It's also kind of hard on your eyes to read on the phone (that's not so much the case on my iPad, but the kids are usually too busy playing video games on it). I also think that the phone isn't the place for the kind of reading that I do in my scholarly work, where I'm reading more closely, re-reading, absorbing, processing, and often annotating.

Of course, I have just discovered annotating software...