"Verity" by Colleen Hoover

Verity started appearing on my radar late last year, when there was hubbub on the local mom's Facebook group about finding and borrowing the novel and Hoover's other titles. Out of nowhere (at least, in my mind), Hoover was suddenly the hottest thing in middle-aged women's literature. One of my friends had reluctantly read the book for a book club and suggested I read it too. 

Of course, I didn't like the book, for many valid and defensible reasons*, and honestly its appeal is far less clear to me than other books that blew up among my demographic (say, Gone Girl, which I did largely enjoy, or even the awful Fifty Shades of Grey, which at least was something new). Still, I've been parsing over my reaction to the book, given that I knew I'd dislike it before I even began.

If I'm being honest, despite my self-adopted label as feminist, I tend to reject out of hand anything your average, upper-middle class, white suburban woman likes. I see the group as tasteless, bland, and frivolous--even though I don't see myself or any of my friends in that light. In some ways, rejecting products popular with suburbanites feels justifiable (after all, every book and movie tells me this group is the scourge of society), but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that some of must be rooted in misogyny, a sense that I believe many (most?) women like me can't appreciate real literature. (Of course, I don't think most men in my demographic can appreciate real literature either. However, as a stereotype, suburban men only watch football and thus have never picked up a book in their life, so there are not even choices to criticize).

I know all of this is ultimately self-aggrandizement, a sense that I (alone?) with my English degree and refined tastes can rise above the masses and appreciate real art, a snootiness that extends beyond literature to the films and TV shows I watch as well. And, again, I know that none of this is true. My friend didn't like Verity any more than I did, and she has no English background. And I'm sure there are women I know who loved the book whom I think are smart, thoughtful, and cultured.

Still, I'm left uncertain of where to go. I haven't participated in a book club in several years, but back when book clubs were at their zenith and I bounced among a few, I found myself at odds with the other members. The clubs often chose popular books like Verity, which I panned, and I knew I came off as pretentious and condescending to the other members who found them fun. On the other hand, it feels disingenuous to try to "focus on positive"--the fact that it's popular doesn't mean there's anything redeeming about Verity.

I suppose the only real conclusion I can come to is that my choices in books are dictated by my tastes, preferences, and reading experiences. That doesn't mean "anything goes"--that all judgments of literature are inherently subjective (and thus meaningless)--but rather that my end goal may be different than others. That's okay too. 

*Just a few valid and defensible reasons why Verity is bad:

1. The prose lacks any grace or art.
2. The main character, Lowen, is given a generic backstory: she had scary sleepwalking as a child, which caused estrangement with her mom. Her mom recently died. She doesn't like being in public. None of this backstory is developed into any sort of meaning in the novel and appears to exist solely to give her grief to share with Jeremy.
3. Lowen's character is, instead, defined by how hot she thinks Jeremy is and by how creepy she thinks Jeremy's house/wife is. But mostly how hot Jeremy is.
4. We're told repeatedly in the novel that Jeremy's wife Verity, who's a famous novelist, is known for writing books from the villain's POV (which Verity presents as some awesome feat; Paradise Lost, anyone?). It's clear early on that the "twist" will be in that vein, but the actual twist (which I won't explain, it's stupid and convoluted) is boring and nonsensical. 
5. No parent would write that about their kids, even as a writing exercise.
   

"The World We Make" by N.K. Jemisin

In my review of The City We Became, the first book in this duology, I noted my mixed feelings about Jemisin centering her newest series as a "love letter to New York." And I use that phrase with all the cliched baggage it carries with it. After all, New York City is special, and the people there know it, but for all the rest of us... it can get a little much. 

Jemisin's unwavering adulation of New York leads to similar problems in The City We Become, where the main villain is trying to destroy NYC by drumming up outside hatred for the city. This makes the conflict explicitly NYC vs. everyone else, where NYC is a beautiful mix of confident, take-no-crap cultures, ethnicities, and races and "everyone else" is ignorant racists. Don't get me wrong--white suburbanites especially deserve most of the criticism they get, but in this novel the dichotomy seems overly straightforward, and even blind to the many cultures and beliefs that exist outside NYC. 

Jemisin noted that this series was originally intended to be a trilogy that she condensed into a duology, and I think that truncated nature shows, particularly in the book's resolution. Though I finished the book just a couple weeks ago, I have entirely forgot the ending, but I'm pretty sure New York won. (just kidding, I know it did)

Still, like with her previous book, Jemisin always writes fun and engaging prose, even though almost everything the characters said annoyed me. The relationship between Manhattan and Neek (the avatar of NYC as a whole) was more sweet than I expected.

"Bad Blood" by John Carreyrou

Bad Blood traces the infamous story of Elizabeth Holmes and her blood-testing company, Theranos. By now, almost everyone knows at least the basics: young Holmes' superstar rise; her ability to raise millions from prominent investors; her company's utter failure to deliver on any of its promises--and the fraud in which she and the company engaged to hide their failings.

Carreyrou is a reporter who was essential in bringing to light the company's fraud, and Bad Blood faithfully does its journalistic duty. Carreyrou recounts the endless string of employees who were hired full of enthusiasm only to be fired once they voiced concerns about the company's lies. Carreyrou recounts the endless string of enthusiastic investors who were taken in by Holmes' charisma and a fear of missing out on the next tech giant. Carreyrou does all of this recounting well, with precision and detail, though there's so many people covered it's impossible to remember more than a couple clearly.

Still, the book was a disappointment, primarily because Carreyrou assumes the role of a traditional reporter, and the novel is written simply as an incredibly long newspaper article. There's detail and accuracy, but there's no feeling or analysis or depth. 

Most startlingly, we learn almost nothing about Holmes herself. Sure, she understandably refused to grant an interview, but you'd think there'd be some attempt to plumb her intentions, thought-process and motivations. What drove her? Did she intentionally and knowingly lie, or did she truly believe her own hype? Carreyrou notes a number of times that she wanted to emulate tech icons like Steve Jobs, but that's just a statement--not any real understanding. Furthermore, while we're repeatedly told how charismatic Holmes is, we get little real evidence for it or a feel for her personality. She persuaded millionaires and top-level government officials, but how?

We also get only a surface-level understanding of the cultural processes that allowed Holmes and Theranos to get as far as they did. Carreyrou notes two important phenomenon:

1. After the success of companies like Apple and Facebook, many investors had intense FOMO and were almost more afraid of missing out on the next big success than losing money.
2. Investors were eager to see success in someone other than a white man, and were overly willing to embrace a story of a young woman's meteoric rise.

Again, while Carreyrou acknowledges these factors, he gives them little discussion or depth. Consider, for example, why #2 is true--it's far easier to latch on to an exceptional story (a female Steve Jobs!) than consider the systemic issues that made icons on white men--but not women or people of color. But this is never discussed.

Or, even deeper, consider the longstanding myth in American society, the one that serves as the bedrock for the American Dream: if you believe it, you can achieve it. It's been the line behind motivational posters, Instagram memes, and self-help nonsense books like The Secret. If we believe this myth--and there's a lot to suggest many people in America do believe this myth--then everything Holmes did was justified. She didn't accept "no" for an answer. She believed she could solve her company's problems by striving ahead, undaunted. She had thought of an idea, and thus the idea was possible--it just required grit and effort. It's no surprise that such an attitude inherently leads to self-delusion, and it's not hard for self-delusion to justify fraud. 

But, instead, despite some acknowledgment of the culture in which Holmes and Theranos operated, Carreyrou treats Holmes as an individual fraudster, not a natural result of her environment. I don't mean to excuse Holmes misdoings, which are many, but rather to emphasize that no one succeeds like this in a vacuum.

I understand that Carreyrou is not an anthropologist or cultural historian. Still, it seems a waste to tell a story like this without an in-depth probing or why and how it happened.