Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral, by Kris Radish. (Bantam Books, $11 paperback-- my copy was, anyway.)
Verdict: Not Worth Reading
If: You have a brain
From the title, and the fact that this author has two other best-selling novels, I expected this book to be funny and exciting and something I would really enjoy. I expected it to be something like Nick Hornby would write, if he were a postmenopausal American female. What I got instead was Max Lucado for adults. Traveling Funeral is a motivational speaker wrapped in a book cover. Radish's characters spout pop psychological drivel to each other and very earnestly find meaning in every single speck of dust they pass. As a fictional demonstration of productive grieving methods, I'm sure it's excellent. As effective fiction, it tanks.
Why? Because Radish makes the crucial mistake of not including her audience. The novel revolves, obviously, around the death of Annie Freeman, a friend to many different women. The traveling funeral brings them together as they scatter her ashes in spots that were important in Annie's life. They swear a lot, and drink a lot, and cry and hug a lot. Ok, people do that, whether they're grieving or not. But guess what? I, the reader, don't know who Annie Freeman is or was, and by the time Radish gets around to actually showing me, I don't care, either. Radish presumes that because I've picked up the book, I'll read the whole thing. She presumes that having six other characters say that Annie Freeman was a wonderful human being means I'll agree. Radish asks her readers to feel emotions she hasn't earned.
Meanwhile, she assaults her readers with very fanciful paragraphs that mean nothing and interrupt what little movement the novel has. Take this excerpt (with apologies): "It did not happen overnight. It was not easy. It would never be forgotten or forgiven. Annie fell into the arms and heart and talents of Laura and her women's center and its many causes and concerns. it was an embrace that transcended the incident when they first met, an embrace that blossomed into friendship, fine love, and passed the test of time and place that often triggers a distance that makes friendship cloud and forgotten." Do you think it sounds nice? How about for 331 pages? Because every other paragraph is like this. This is telling, not showing, and anyone who's ever taken freshman writing should know better than to ever write a paragraph like this, much less an entire novel of it, much less publish it. It makes me wonder what she handed her editors to begin with if this is the result of their best efforts.
In addition to lack of talent and concern for her craft, what this sort of writing demonstrates is that Radish has included a lot of herself in this novel. Like bad poetry, Radish's novel seems to draw on genuine emotions that are the result of actual experience. And I am all for people writing down their experiences and trying to express what they feel. But for pity's sake, don't publish it. Publishing this novel is the equivalent of going out with your skirt tucked into your pantyhose, and Radish clearly lacks the good girlfriends she attempts to celebrate in this novel-- that is, the ones who would keep her from embarassing herself.
What I do sense from this novel is that whoever this Annie Freeman was, she was important to a lot of people. Sure would've been nice to see her and to know her myself, rather than having to rely on second- and third-hand accounts.
Verdict: Not Worth Reading
If: You have a brain
From the title, and the fact that this author has two other best-selling novels, I expected this book to be funny and exciting and something I would really enjoy. I expected it to be something like Nick Hornby would write, if he were a postmenopausal American female. What I got instead was Max Lucado for adults. Traveling Funeral is a motivational speaker wrapped in a book cover. Radish's characters spout pop psychological drivel to each other and very earnestly find meaning in every single speck of dust they pass. As a fictional demonstration of productive grieving methods, I'm sure it's excellent. As effective fiction, it tanks.
Why? Because Radish makes the crucial mistake of not including her audience. The novel revolves, obviously, around the death of Annie Freeman, a friend to many different women. The traveling funeral brings them together as they scatter her ashes in spots that were important in Annie's life. They swear a lot, and drink a lot, and cry and hug a lot. Ok, people do that, whether they're grieving or not. But guess what? I, the reader, don't know who Annie Freeman is or was, and by the time Radish gets around to actually showing me, I don't care, either. Radish presumes that because I've picked up the book, I'll read the whole thing. She presumes that having six other characters say that Annie Freeman was a wonderful human being means I'll agree. Radish asks her readers to feel emotions she hasn't earned.
Meanwhile, she assaults her readers with very fanciful paragraphs that mean nothing and interrupt what little movement the novel has. Take this excerpt (with apologies): "It did not happen overnight. It was not easy. It would never be forgotten or forgiven. Annie fell into the arms and heart and talents of Laura and her women's center and its many causes and concerns. it was an embrace that transcended the incident when they first met, an embrace that blossomed into friendship, fine love, and passed the test of time and place that often triggers a distance that makes friendship cloud and forgotten." Do you think it sounds nice? How about for 331 pages? Because every other paragraph is like this. This is telling, not showing, and anyone who's ever taken freshman writing should know better than to ever write a paragraph like this, much less an entire novel of it, much less publish it. It makes me wonder what she handed her editors to begin with if this is the result of their best efforts.
In addition to lack of talent and concern for her craft, what this sort of writing demonstrates is that Radish has included a lot of herself in this novel. Like bad poetry, Radish's novel seems to draw on genuine emotions that are the result of actual experience. And I am all for people writing down their experiences and trying to express what they feel. But for pity's sake, don't publish it. Publishing this novel is the equivalent of going out with your skirt tucked into your pantyhose, and Radish clearly lacks the good girlfriends she attempts to celebrate in this novel-- that is, the ones who would keep her from embarassing herself.
What I do sense from this novel is that whoever this Annie Freeman was, she was important to a lot of people. Sure would've been nice to see her and to know her myself, rather than having to rely on second- and third-hand accounts.
No comments:
Post a Comment