Zoë Stagg

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Holy Gravy. This has to be shopped. Tell me there is not curriculum that includes Nicholas Sparks, nor people who are unable to read the whole volume, thus necessitating Cliffs Notes. For a Nicholas Sparks book. In any event, I hope it includes a discussion section on how he infantilizes, sanctifies, and whoreifies his female characters. Let’s not forget Savannah who got date raped but wasn’t sure she didn’t love her attacker. He probably doesn’t hate women — though more nuanced and complete feminine portraits might come out of a room of four year olds and some Bratz Dolls. I always figured the heavy religious influence certainly contributed, that Bible book doesn’t do chick lit so good, either — but this is interesting. From his FAQs (which amusingly include the “frequently” asked question, “What were your running times in high school?” Uh huh.) Why do you write love stories? I chose that genre because there was little to no competition. At least that’s honest. (PS, he’s crowd-sourcing his next book.) The parallel that seems obvious between Sparks and Kincade becomes even stronger knowing this. Wildly successful art-as-product. Because sometimes there’s art because you have to get out or it will consume you, and sometimes there’s art for consumption.

Holy Gravy. This has to be shopped. Tell me there is not curriculum that includes Nicholas Sparks, nor people who are unable to read the whole volume, thus necessitating Cliffs Notes. For a Nicholas Sparks book.

In any event, I hope it includes a discussion section on how he infantilizes, sanctifies, and whoreifies his female characters. Let’s not forget Savannah who got date raped but wasn’t sure she didn’t love her attacker. He probably doesn’t hate women — though more nuanced and complete feminine portraits might come out of a room of four year olds and some Bratz Dolls.

I always figured the heavy religious influence certainly contributed, that Bible book doesn’t do chick lit so good, either — but this is interesting. From his FAQs (which amusingly include the “frequently” asked question, “What were your running times in high school?” Uh huh.)

Why do you write love stories? I chose that genre because there was little to no competition.

At least that’s honest. (PS, he’s crowd-sourcing his next book.)

The parallel that seems obvious between Sparks and Kincade becomes even stronger knowing this. Wildly successful art-as-product. Because sometimes there’s art because you have to get out or it will consume you, and sometimes there’s art for consumption.

I have finally, FINALLY, after re-registering and de-registering and trying to remember passwords and whatever fake answers I gave to prompt questions, gotten books I checked out of the Army Intarnets Liberry, onto my magic reading tablet. If I did it more often than once every six months, it wouldn’t be such a trial, NOW WOULD IT. Now I have nine days to read three books. Not a problem. I have nearly that long playing Kevin McAllister and I polished off half of the Frank Bruni last night. Like really good leftovers in the fridge, I doubt it will make it through the rest of the day. And yes. They’re all memoirs and biographies (Food critic, Beatrix Potter, and a gal who moved to France). I will put some challenge books on this year’s list, I will. I just..with the exception of James and his Peach and Horace in Downtown Owl and Harry sometimes, I just need the people I care about to be real. Fine. I’ll do a fiction next. (And another thing about this fiction, librarian friends, by author? That’s really the sorting we’re going with? That’s some nonsense. The alphabet is a completely arbitrary taxonomy of random shapes and the realm of fiction is vast. I mean I could just do this, but really? Your Nicholas Sparks and your— WAIT. Pause for this. Heh. “It’s like this guy only know one possible bad thing that could happen to people.” And we all know where he learned his complicated theories on gender… The point is, and I clearly don’t have one, is that all fiction is not created equally, sorting it by the author’s last name — who isn’t even a character in the book — is silly, and Nooks are hard.) Okay. If you need me, I’ll be reading.

I have finally, FINALLY, after re-registering and de-registering and trying to remember passwords and whatever fake answers I gave to prompt questions, gotten books I checked out of the Army Intarnets Liberry, onto my magic reading tablet.

If I did it more often than once every six months, it wouldn’t be such a trial, NOW WOULD IT.

Now I have nine days to read three books.

Not a problem. I have nearly that long playing Kevin McAllister and I polished off half of the Frank Bruni last night. Like really good leftovers in the fridge, I doubt it will make it through the rest of the day.

And yes. They’re all memoirs and biographies (Food critic, Beatrix Potter, and a gal who moved to France). I will put some challenge books on this year’s list, I will. I just..with the exception of James and his Peach and Horace in Downtown Owl and Harry sometimes, I just need the people I care about to be real.

Fine. I’ll do a fiction next.

(And another thing about this fiction, librarian friends, by author? That’s really the sorting we’re going with? That’s some nonsense. The alphabet is a completely arbitrary taxonomy of random shapes and the realm of fiction is vast. I mean I could just do this, but really? Your Nicholas Sparks and your— WAIT.

Pause for this. Heh. “It’s like this guy only know one possible bad thing that could happen to people.”

And we all know where he learned his complicated theories on gender…

The point is, and I clearly don’t have one, is that all fiction is not created equally, sorting it by the author’s last name — who isn’t even a character in the book — is silly, and Nooks are hard.)

Okay. If you need me, I’ll be reading.

Virgin/Wow…

So I’m sitting at the movies alone waiting for New Moon to start and the Dear John trailer plays. In case the first sentence didn’t make it abundantly clear how awesome I am, I audibly appreciated it, the thing is so hot. And in case the second sentence doesn’t make it clear that makes me hate myself a little for it, well, watch it and get back to me.

I’m usually a movie/book purist (consume one or the other, never both) but I saw Dear John in paperback and bought it. It is, after all, a long time until February 5. The book is quite… different from what the trailer teased me to believe.

I’m on page 116, and two thoughts are having a death match in my mind:

a) Everything Nicholas Sparks knows about women he learned from a dot-to-dot of the Virgin Mary in Sunday School; or

b) Nicholas Sparks knows women better than anyone with matching chromosomes.

Now I’m familiar with his canon, understand well that Christianity plays a theme in all of his works, but the depiction of gender — woman as saint, man as sinner in need of salvation — is making me want to take the Lord’s name and make a Carly Simon remix.

Savannah, the Holly Hobby Heroine here, likes horses because “all girls like horses.” Fine. Within days she’s tamed the wild-pony soldier whose evidence of rebellion seems to be that he didn’t get along with his dad, didn’t have ambition, and got some tattoos. He stops drinking completely after she hands him a diet Pepsi — even though, gasp, she’s not entirely straight-edge: “I have to start my day with coffee. It’s my one vice.”

So if coffee’s first base…

“That’s what I don’t like about college…There’s such a casual view about things like sex and drinking and even drugs.” On two people who’d sneaked behind the dunes to do some “casual viewing” she says, “I’m kind of disappointed in those two people…Shouldn’t you save things like that for someone you love? So that it really means something?” OH. And by “things like that” she means kissing, because they don’t until the dude says “I love you.” First. Continue disbelief suspension please, there’s more.

Now Savannah did love someone else once. Some nefarious upperclassman who roofied her and tried to date rape her “carving another notch with her name on it” at the fancy out of town Winter Formal. More evidence of horrible men doing women wrong. But even though he drugged and assaulted her, Soldier asks: “Are you sure you didn’t love him?” “No. I’m not.” My tummy hurts.

At this point, I also began to wonder if Mr. Sparks actually knew any women.

To be clear, I’m not criticizing the writing. Merely mystified by the construction of gender through narrative. He’s a wildly successful author, and that’s what’s so intriguing to me. His books are clearly written FOR women. I am a woman. But I don’t see myself depicted in this saint/sinner romantic paradigm at all. But skrillions of chicks must, or at least enjoy that fantasy enough to want to exist in that land of make-believe in order to make him so successful. Am I clearly on the wrong end of the Madonna/Whore continuum here for even wondering? Is true love never having to say salvation?

Is Nicholas Sparks a better woman than I am?