Her Fearful Symmetry: One of *Those* Books

Though most of my reading experiences have been positive ones, there is, of course, the occasional piece of crap. That book that is *so* bad, that not even my inner English major can be forced into saying something nice about it. I'm not talking Twilight, which gets an "Eh, it's good for what it is," from me. I don't mean Lord of the Flies, which, even though I didn't enjoy it, I can recognize has earned the right to be called a classic. No, I mean those books that you finish and think 'What?! I just wasted five hours of my life on that?!' and throw the book at the wall. I'm talking about the books that make you want to write the author and tell her not to give up her day job (so to speak). Fortunately, I have come across few books in my life that fit that description. That's part of why the book I read last week got me so mad: I just wasn't ready for a stinker.

Last month, on a weekend jaunt to Hastings, I was delighted to find that Audrey Niffenegger, author of The Time Traveler's Wife, had published a new book. I loved her first novel, so I immediately picked up the book and planned to buy it. However, it was only a month until Christmas and I still had presents to buy. I sat down in one of the chairs and started reading to make sure this was a book I wanted to spend thirty dollars on. It was. I got fifty pages in that day and it was wonderful. Though different from The Time Traveler's Wife, the book still had that mysterious, romantic, almost Gothic air that Niffenegger does so well. However, by that point, common sense had gotten the better of me. I put the beautiful but overpriced book back, went home, and added it to my list at the library.

A slow four weeks passed, during which I almost bought the book several more times. I controlled myself though, and finally, in the first week of the new year, the book came into the library. I went and picked it up the day I got the notice and settled down that night to read it. I sped through, and at the end of the novel I was saddened to realize that I had just finished one of *those* books.

Her Fearful Symmetry went bad after that first fifty pages. The storylines were predictable (including both of the "shocking" twists), the characters were unlikable, and the resolution seemed rushed. Plus, there was animal cruelty.

The one good aspect of the book was Martin, the OCD, crossword-setting upstairs neighbor to the main characters. In fact, a book about Martin and his wife Marijke as they struggle to deal with his ever-worsening illness would have been wonderful. But I guess Niffenegger felt that The Obsessive-Compulsive's Wife would be a tad repetitive.

Other *Those* Books:

Ya-Yas in Bloom by Rebecca Wells - Bad from the beginning, but turns truly awful towards the end. It's almost like Wells got close to the end and thought 'Oh YEAH! I need a plot! Well, I'll do this and this and this and voila! The end.' Fans of Divine Secrets don't waste your time. It's not the Ya-Yas. It's some faker.

Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald - I should have known better than to read a book Oprah recommended, but sadly I caved on this book. What a waste. Depressing, disturbing, unoriginal, and boring. I'll even spoil it for you because that's how much I don't want you to read it: it's about incest. Lots and lots of incest. Artsy incest, at that.

Pay it Forward - Okay, so this is not actually a book, at least not as far as I know, but it's definitely one of *those* things. Not even Helen Hunt, Haley Joel Osment, and Kevin Spacey can make this pile of garbage worth watching. This is the only movie I have ever walked away from wishing I could have the last two hours of my life back. I can handle sad. I can handle pointless violence deaths, even when it's children doing the dying. But why make an inspirational movie and then undermine your own point?

Introduction: The History of a Reader

In my mother's family, not reading was unacceptable. My grandfather was an education professor at the local college and my grandmother a retired biology teacher. Two of my uncles were also teachers, and my own mother worked as a journalist and an English teacher before I was born. Everybody read all the time. Newspapers, magazines, fiction, non-fiction, the backs of cereal boxes, everything. At one time, I counted twenty-one bookshelves in my grandparent's house.

It wasn't just reading. In my family, the art of letter writing never died. A game of Scrabble while watching Wheel of Fortune was the favorite nighttime activity. The crossword was a staple on to-do lists. My grandfather made up stories, some of which he wrote down, some of which he didn't, one of which he even published. Not even old age and macular degeneration could keep my Yoy (the other kids called him grandpa Roy; I couldn't say it), from his beloved words. As his sight got weaker, the print got larger and he switched his writing notebooks for the large pads used to help youngsters learning to write to form their letters.

However, even in this literature-saturated environment, the love of reading eluded me. I was content to sit on Yoy's knee and have him read to me. Nothing could have kept me from one of Mannie's (aka Granny Mark's) stories about her childhood. Still, the thrill of curling up with a book of my own and reading to myself eluded me. I'd rather be out climbing trees, or watching Disney movies with my best friend Kelly. When first grade came along though, I no longer had a choice. I had to learn to read.

I hated it. I was bad at it. I fought my teacher every step of the way. Luckily for me, Mom wouldn't have it. Maybe it was inconceivable to her that a daughter of hers would never be "a reader." Maybe she knew what a benefit extensive reading offers in school. Maybe she wanted to expand my imagination by exposing me to the wild and varied worlds contained in the written page. Whatever the case, while I fought the teacher, Mom fought me. Unlike other kids, I didn't just read the assigned short story of the night and then go to sleep. Oh no, I read TWO short stories, and I read them slowly and carefully till I got it right. And over time, something wonderful happened. As my reading improved, my love for it increased. Before long, I too was playing Scrabble (and losing spectacularly). By the end of first grade I was just as likely to be found with a book in my hand as up a tree.

Then, towards the beginning of second grade, my Aunt Mary (another teacher in the family) did something that sealed the reading deal. Her own children, both several years older than me, had outgrown many of their books, so she sent them to me. That first enormous box had the first thirty-two books in The Boxcar Children series. I read the first one. I was hooked. I read them all, over and over until they were falling apart. I bought more of the series. I took one to school and asked the teacher to read it to the class. I had found the first love of my literary life. In short, a reader was born.