Since none of you seemed too offended by my last post of complete randomness, I figure why not do another one? I just thought you might like to know that I finished up the non-fiction portion of my commitment to ELLE. Emboldened by Megan, I decided I have no reason to feel guilty over abandoning the last two of the nominees. After all, the magazine only requires that I review my top 3 choices; I read enough of the last two books to know they didn't have a chance of toppling my Holy Trinity of non-fiction picks. Just because I didn't care for them, however, doesn't mean they aren't worthy of consideration, so here (for your reading pleasure) are quick synopses of the two memoirs I didn't finish:

Losing Everything by David Lozell Martin - This is Martin's story of growing up with a rage-filled father and a mother who is literally insane. It's about how history repeats itself, and how one man finds his way home after going through hell on Earth. The beginning is well-written, but a little slow and a lot depressing. When I got to the part where Martin's mother tries to seduce him and his hormonal teenage self actually considers it, I was sickened to the point that I couldn't read anymore. I appreciate his honesty, but it was just way too much for me. I believe - and hope - that his story comes to a hopeful end - I just couldn't stick around that long. The book is garnering excellent reviews on Amazon, which you can see here.

"I thought I knew what crazy was. Then I came to Bellevue."

- Julie Holland, M.D.

Every day, New York City's sickest, most pathetic residents troop through the doors of Bellevue Hospital's psychiatric ER. It's a desperate parade of sociopathic inmates, abandoned street folk, suicidal everymen and psychopaths of every stripe. Some want a listening ear, others a safe place to sleep; some enter souped up on drugs, others have been off their meds for months; some want real treatment, others desire only the free painkillers. Each shift brings fresh neuroses, new problems, unique challenges. In short, Bellevue's the perfect workplace for a hotshot young psychiatrist like Julie Holland. An adrenaline junkie who loves nothing more than playing with fire, she gets a sometimes frightening, ofttimes enlightening, always fascinating up-close look at how the brain functions - and malfunctions.

Weekends at Bellevue (which will be published in October) details all the crazy Holland encountered in the 9 years she spent treating patients in the ER, as well as the path that led a would-be rock star to become an honored psychiatrist, professor and author. She describes her growth from a nervous "third-year" who "spent most of my time feeling like I was in either a gory movie or a well-written medical drama" (31-32) to a more confident resident and finally, to an experienced psychiatrist and expert psychopharmocologist. Along the path, she encounters her share of dangerous patients, harmless whack jobs, successes and failures. Her experiences oscillate from outrageous to hilarious to heartbreaking. What makes the book most profound, however, are the truths Holland discovers about humanity and about herself. By the time burnout forces her out of the chaos of emergency medicine into the relative calm of private practice, Holland has come to a startling conclusion:

The reality is this: All of us, to some degree, are mentally ill. We get paranoid, anxious, depressed, and insomniac. We alternate between delusions of grandeur and crippling self-doubt, we suffer from paralyzing fears and embarrassing neuroses. We have compulsions to do things we know we shouldn't, and there are millions of us with addictions, whether to gambling, drinking, dieting, or playing Second Life. Every one of us has psychiatric symptoms, many of them serious enough to warrant attention, even if they are not incapacitating. But few of us are willing to let on that we are suffering. This secrecy and shame compounds our avoidance of those who have been officially diagnosed as mentally ill (293).

Last month, Melissa over at One Librarian's Book Reviews asked, "Do you find yourself viewing books through morally-tinted glasses? Do you think this detracts from your enjoyment of certain types of stories (those that grate against your personal beliefs)?" These questions kept rolling around in my mind as I read What I Thought I Knew, a memoir by Alice Eve Cohen. The truth is, there are several issues in her book that I find morally reprehensible. Because of this, I wondered if I could evaluate it fairly - not only am I "grading" her book here, but I'm also judging it against five other memoirs to determine which Elle magazine will deem best non-fiction book of 2009. This is the conclusion I came to: No matter a book's subject, I can judge its merits fairly when it comes to writing, editing, plot construction, character development, originality, etc. Of course, the best books are not always those with the best editing, or the most exciting plot - for me, the greatest are those that capture me and proceed to thrill my heart and soul. Connection is key, but when it comes to that, my "morally-tinted glasses" can sometimes be problematic. I, like all of you, approach every book I read carrying my own moral, religious, and political ideas, as well as the breadth of my personal experience - no matter how open-minded I tell myself to be, all of these things color how I view a book. This is especially true in the case of Cohen's book. Technically, it's well-written; truthfully, it turned my stomach.

In 1999, Cohen is finally happy. After battling infertility, enduring a divorce, fighting for custody of her 3-year-old adopted daughter, struggling as a single parent, and trying to make enough money to pay the bills, she's finally feeling some of her burdens lifting. She's engaged to a man 10 years her junior - Michael's her own personal fountain of youth. He's kind, creative, in love with both her and her daughter. At 44, she's found success in both her personal and professional lives; there's no reason to believe her future will be anything but bright. In the back of her mind, though, lurks her Jewish mother who constantly warned against tempting the Evil Eye by enjoying too much happiness. Turns out, her mother knew what she was talking about.

Cohen's joy drains as illness takes over. She's nauseated, sore, and completely exhausted. Any woman who's ever been pregnant recognizes these sypmtoms for what they are, except that Cohen is infertile. Because of a Bicornuate uterus, she can't get pregnant. Her doctors search for a diagnosis, offering everything from early menopause to "middle-aged loss of muscle tone" (14) to a bladder disorder. Finally, an emergency CAT scan reveals the truth: she's 6 months pregnant. Considering her advanced age, plus the fact that she's taken estrogen for years, received no prenatal monitoring, and unknowingly put her baby at risk, she's not surprised to find that the fetus is not developing normally. Terrified, Cohen considers abortion, suicide, adoption. She wrestles with herself over the ramifications of "killing ... what might be a viable baby" (55), of dealing with a preemie or a special needs child, of not raising her own baby, and of bringing to life a child she already detests. "I try every day," she writes, "to want a baby" (66).

The pregnancy ends in an unexpected way, which throws everything into a completely different light. Suffering from severe post-partum depression and an "unforgivable ambivalence" (135), Cohen makes her way blindly through this confusing, new landscape. Doubting herself, despising herself, and ultimately learning to trust herself, Alice Eve Cohen comes to revise everything she thought she knew.

Like Cohen, I possess a malformed uterus; I've dealt with infertility; I've worried over raising a premature or special needs child; I've hated myself for providing an inadequate incubator for the fetus growing inside me; and my life has been changed by adoption. Considering all that we have in common, I should have found in Cohen a bosom buddy. Maybe our differences are just too glaring: she's a liberal agnostic from New York, I'm a conservative Mormon from the west. I abhor abortion, and find the whole idea of wrongful life lawsuits (which comes into play in What I Thought I Knew) repugnant on so many levels. While I admire Cohen's courage (it takes a lot of guts to admit you hated your baby on sight), to me she came off mostly as a selfish whiner. I know that's harsh and will probably earn me an angry comment or two, but that's how I feel. I've been told I don't understand depression and chemical imbalances, and that's probably true - I've always been a happy, positive person who tends to believe that if I can deal with the crap of life without complaining, so can you. So, while I didn't enjoy this book (in fact, much of it made me sick to my stomach), I can at least appreciate the fact that it helped me empathize with another woman's heartbreak. I'm sure there are hundreds of women out there who will find that Cohen says everything they've thought and felt. I am not one of those women. But, I can admit that this book made me think. It's haunted me since I put it down. Do I recommend it? I don't know.

Technically speaking, What I Thought I Knew is well-written. Not beautifully, not brilliantly, not lushly. In fact, it's very stark and unsentimental. Honest. It's also choppy and frenzied in places. The story's engrossing, if not engaging. Cohen describes herself and her circle of family, friends, and associates in ways that make them interesting, human and sympathetic. It's an affecting story, but not necessarily a touching one. Does that make sense?

I think what I'm trying to say is this: What I Thought I Knew by Alice Eve Cohen is technically well-written, but I wouldn't call it enjoyable. Many will connect with this novel (see Melissa's review, for instance). I didn't. If it were possible to remove my "morally-tinted glasses" or if I wasn't the person I am, maybe I would have liked it better, but it isn't and I'm not. The most I can do is admit my prejudices and move on.

(Note: If you're interested in reading more about wrongful life lawsuits, try Jodi Picoult's novel Handle With Care, reviewed here.)

Grade: C

If this were a movie, it would be rated: R for language, sexual content, and adult situations.

Things are not going well for Veronica Van Holten. For starters, she hates her job. It's bad enough that she's a junior and still living in the dorms, but as a resident assistant, she's in charge of controlling the drama on her floor. She doesn't have time for her neighbors, she has no car, she's barely keeping up in her pre-med classes, and she's devastated over her parents' impending divorce. Veronica does have a very nice boyfriend, which is wonderful until he asks her for a little more commitment. Now, she's freaking out. While I'm Falling by Laura Moriarty is Veronica's coming-of-age story. It's also a novel about family, about mothers and daughters, and about how to cope when one's life is falling apart at the seams.
For our heroine, everything collides one fateful morning on a deserted highway, leaving her shaken. Her cries for help prove just how much her family has disintegrated. Veronica's frayed nerves lead to a string of remarkably bad decisions, landing her in a heap of trouble. Then, just when she needs her mother, who's always been her biggest support system, Natalie Van Holten shows up at her daughter's dorm - with an overnight bag, an arthritic dog and all of her worldly belongings sitting in a minivan in the parking lot. Can things possibly get any worse? This is Veronica Van Holten we're talking about - of course they can. And they do. Along the way, she has to figure out how to pick up the pieces of her broken family life, her fledgling future, but most of all, herself.
Veronica's crises aren't exactly original, and neither is she for that matter, but you know what? It doesn't matter. She's authentic, so real that my heart ached for her. Physically. I was so engrossed in her story that I felt actual dread balling up in my chest. I had to keep telling myself, "It's only a book. It's not real." That's how strongly I identified with her. The thing that drew me to her, I think, is the following passage. I'm pretty sure I've had this conversation before:

I'll be honest, I haven't been really thrilled with the books Elle has sent me to review so far. The majority have been depressing, profanity-filled diatribes that I suffered through only out of duty; one was so filthy I couldn't stand to look at it, let alone review it. So, when I opened up the newest batch of books from the magazine, I gasped in surprise and delight: right on top lay a glossy, hardback copy of Alan Brennert's new novel, Honolulu. The cover alone made me sigh. Having been swept away by Brennert's first book, Moloka'i (which I reviewed here), I stepped into this new story with eager anticipation. While it's not quite as affecting as its predecessor, Honolulu draws readers in with the same aloha charm, moving them with a story as dramatic and enthralling as the islands themselves.
The story actually begins in Korea in the early 1900s. Young Regret (so named because she is not a son) lives a life that is"typically Korean" (3). As a girl, she is expected to shadow her mother, learning to cook, clean, sew and otherwise serve the men of the house. Because males and females - even relatives - must be kept separate "like wheat from chaff" (4), she spends most of her time confined to the Inner Rooms of her home; when she does venture out, she must wear a veil so as not to attract male attention. Eventually, she will marry a man chosen by her father, re-locate to his family home, and serve him under the close scrutiny of her mother-in-law. Her future is as inevitable as the rise of the sun.
Or is it? When Regret spies a discarded newspaper, a whole new world opens up in front of her. The words intrigue her. If only she could attend school like her brothers, she would be able to decipher the mysteries of the written word. When her request for an education is vehemently denied by her imposing father, Regret takes matters into her own hands. Clandestine reading lessons allow her to dream of a life away from Korea. Opportunity knocks, and soon Regret ships out to Hawaii as a "picture bride" - a woman engaged to marry a man she knows only through the exchange of photos. Her excitement turns to dread when she realizes her intended is not the wealthy young man he purported to be. In fact, he's a poor plantation worker, who tends to talk with his fists. Still, she's hopeful that life in this exotic new world will give her what she craves - a chance to learn.
And learn she does. Regret quickly discovers that life rarely turns out as planned. From the plantations of Waialua to the brothels of Iwilei to the beach at Waikiki, she will gain her education. Joy and sorrow, shame and pride, fear and peace - she will experience it all as she comes of age on an island that's gradually making its own transformation. The tale that begins with the arrival of a naive picture bride to a "sleepy little port at the end of the world" (328) ends with a woman shaped by experience, beaming with pride at the thriving melting pot that is Honolulu.
Lush and lovely, Honolulu begs to be savored. While the story holds enough twists and turns to keep the story moving, it's largely plotless. Its beauty lies in its sense of place, its sense of culture, its sense of humanity. Character trumps all else here, and Regret is the kind of character we can all cheer - she's kind, hard-working and brave. Brennert paints the sights, smells and people of Hawaii so vividly, that she becomes a character in her own right. We see her rubbing shoulders with Regret as they both come of age in a time of great adventure and chaos. Brennert mixes in enough history to make the story believable, but not boring. The result is an epic story of Hawaii, a fitting tribute to the immigrants who came to her shores and made them their own. It pays homage to a place where cultures collided to create "a whole greater than the sum of its parts" (354). But, mostly, it celebrates life - well lived.
Grade: B
If this was a movie, it would be rated: PG-13 for language, violence, some sexual content, and adult situations.

Lima Nights by Marie Arana is like the tango - exotic, passionate and dramatic. It's about two partners who, from the audience's view, move together with precision, polish and passion. Seen a little closer, through opera glasses perhaps, things are not quite as smooth. Suddenly, the dancers become people - flawed, angry and irreparably out of synch. The book ends with a disappointing finale - as a performance never should - yet it leaves an imprint, if only because of its warning.

The book begins in a Peruvian tango bar, where "gringo" Carlos Bluhm spots the lovely Maria. One of the club's dancers, she is outgoing and flirtatious, seemingly as interested in Carlos as he is in her. When she slips her number into his back pocket, she offers him an escape he can't refuse. Before he's really paused to consider the possible consequences of his action, Bluhm dials her number. He's so infatuated that he hardly cares about the differences between them - Maria is 15, a dark-skinned native, who is working two jobs to keep rice on her family's table, whereas Bluhm is a husband, father and member of Lima's high-class Germanic society. Despite warnings from his friends, he continues the affair, falling deeply and passionately for Maria. The relationship makes him feel young, needed and happy.

In a society where cheating husbands are par for the course, it's no surprise that his wife, Sophie, soon becomes suspicious. When her fears are confirmed, she leaves Bluhm to deal with the consequences of the mess into which he's gotten himself. Twenty years later, he's contemplating just how messy things between himself and Maria have become. Can he save his marriage? Does he even want to? It will take a little black magic, a little modern-day psychiatry, and a brush with death to decide the fate of the mismatched lovers. It's a sizzling, obsessive tango between two flawed dancers, that comes to a shocking conclusion on the grimy streets of Lima.

Although Lima Nights is essentially about a lecherous middle-aged man, his teenage lover, the sex they have in stolen moments, and the people they destroy in the process, I somehow managed not to hate the book. It's graphic in both sex and language, neither of which tend to endear me to a book. Still, Arana's writing becomes the deciding factor - her themes are lurid, but she writes in a way that is both sensitive and unsentimental. Her characters get what they deserve, but she is able to make us feel sorry for them. Although I disliked Bluhm almost immediately, I found both he and Maria to be sympathetic and real. In spite of myself, I wanted the lovers to get a happy ending. Unfortunately, this book offers another example of how a disappointing ending can really mar a story. After I scowled at the novel's "resolution," I set the depressing story aside, and very happily moved on. I never liked the tango that much anyway.

Grade: C

(Book Image from Barnes & Noble)

If you're looking for a breezy beach read, you're not going to find it in Entertaining Disasters by Nancy Spiller. In fact, you won't find a lot of things in this book. No thrills, no action, no adventure, no romance, no real plot. However, if you don't mind a slower pace, a little melancholy and a lot of introspection, then this book should be in your hands. It won't demand a lot of your time or keep you up at night flipping pages, but its sharp observations on life will make you pause. And think. And identify. And laugh. And possibly cry.

The book features an unnamed foodie, who writes about her elaborate, celebrity-studded dinner parties for L.A.'s culinary magazines. In her articles, she describes the food she prepares, the guests she entertains, and the memories she made baking with her mother. Her expertise speaks for itself. So, why does an upcoming dinner party with a well-known food editor have her quaking in her boots? The truth is, she hasn't entertained in over a decade. Her mouth-watering menus have been prepared only in her head, her guests invented in her imagination. One upon a time, she did entertain, but now, the thought makes her tremble. Paranoia has her questioning everything - will anyone show up for the party? What will she talk about with them? Will her guests like her food? Will they be bored to tears? Can she find a good excuse to cancel? Her grandmother has only died twice and she hasn't come down with a good flu lately ...

As our heroine obsesses about the party, she contemplates the terror that paralyzes her in social situations. She muses over her disfuctional family, her less-than-passionate marriage, her culinary education, and the crushing effort that goes into planning a real, live dinner party.

Although the book drags under details only hard-core foodies will find interesting, it's buoyed by the authenticity of the narrator's voice. The novel lacks swift pacing, careful plotting and lively dialogue, but our heroine will entrance you with her vulnerability. Her paranoid, sarcastic views on life keep the book interesting, while her true memories of childhood make it absolutely riveting. Since the narrator's sharp, poignant musings really make the book, I offer you a sample of her thoughts*:

On family: There isn't a place for a family like ours in the grand scheme of American dreams, and no one, least of all us, knows how to respond to it.

Sometimes I fear that if I stop mourning its loss, this family will cease to exist altogether. That my sorrow is the only thing keeping it alive. Or possibly that this family never existed at all.

On dining together: At this point in the process it invariably dawned on me that the real hunger in all of this was not merely for food, but for the company of others. When none of us seemed to have time for anything, including a sit-down, well-prepared meal, and everyone appeared trapped in a solo chase after things we were not even sure existed, companionship and community could be the first things cut from the to-do list. The thought of a dinner amongst friends took on the backlit glow of a Platonic ideal.

On the rat-race: I wasn't trying to make this a business evening, but I wasn't an idiot, either, and when you went to this much effort in Los Angeles, it had better, like the freeways, lead somewhere. That's why they called it the City of Angles. Most of the population was running on a biofuel based on fear-borne angst, and it took too much of the stuff to not turn every event into a golden on-ramp. Marisa would be mine that night.

You get the picture. Come January, you'll definitely want to get the book.

Grade: B+

*Quoting from an ARC is a big no-no for reviewers, so I have to justify my actions by saying that (1) I didn't think you could really get the essence of the book without quotes, (2) I can't check the text of the ARC against a final copy, because those won't be available until January, and (3) Spiller's publicist never emailed me back to verify the quotes. So, there. I'm safe, right?