You Can't Even Count on Fluff

I admit it. I read fluffy literature. And I don't mean I read fluffy literature as in once a year or so I pick up a novel that will eventually have to be part of my secret collection of crap books that I won't admit to owning (including a few leftovers from my Sweet Valley High days). I mean I read fluffy literature on a regular basis. Does it have shopping, shoes, or Choos in the title? I probably read it. I read fluffy literature on a regular basis not only because the sheer lack of depth provides a welcome relief from the serious, quality literature I read for school, but also because I genuinely enjoy fluffy literature. I believe in year-round beach reads, and I keep them front and center on my bookshelves right next to the likes of James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. However, I feel I have an oft-written understanding with these authors. I will pour what little money I have into their books, recommend them to other people, and continue to support their tried-and-trite stories in exchange for the small little formula that equals good fluff: a trendy outfit, a night with too many drinks, a handsome stranger, and a happy ending. Is that really too much to ask? Apparently so.

In recent months I have found myself inundated with previously loyal authors who have since failed to provide me with the key ingredient to fluffy literature: the happy ending. (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT. However, if it's any consolation, the books I am about to spoil are clearly not worth reading because they have messed up the balance of cheesy stories and satisfied readers.) I have been a loyal follower of Jennifer Weiner since the very beginning. I stood "In Her Shoes," kept her with me because she was "Good in Bed," endured "Little Earthquakes," and finally said "Goodnight, Nobody" for several years before she ruined our otherwise harmonious relationship in "Certain Girls." Here we see Connie Shapiro, a character first introduced in "Good in Bed," who has at long last found her suitable partner, a wonderful man who helps to raise her daughter from a previous relationship. Together they begin pursuing their own baby via a surrogate mother, only to have the husband die suddenly from a heart attack mere weeks before they discover they are expecting. That's right, he died. No warning, no foreboding, nothing. One day they are happily ever after, and the next day he's in the happily ever afterlife. Jennifer Weiner, we are through.

I consoled myself past this novel and continued my pursuit of modern day fairy tales only to find the balance of my literary universe disrupted again by Kate Jacobs. Now I will be the first to admit my expectations should not have been altogether too high when picking up a book with the assiduous title, "The Friday Night Knitting Club," but I still had hopes. Georgia Walker, an honorable woman who ran her own business while raising her daughter all by herself after her husband deserted her so early in their life together. Now that her daughter is approaching her teenager years, Georgia finds herself rejoined with her ex-husband. They rediscover their love and his reliability just as her business finds a new level of success accompanied by a growing circle of close friends. Then, of course, she discovers she has cancer. Two hundred pages and a few short months later, she, too, dies. One minute she's improving, the next minute she's fireplace fodder. Thank you, and good night. Kate Jacobs, our potential reader/author relationship perished alongside your main character. You may have gone on to rejoice in the growth and ambition of her young daughter, Dakota, but I'm not going to take my chances. Fool me once . . .

Most recently, and the book that prompted this blog, is Jill Mansell and her latest novel "Miranda's Big Mistake." The fluffiness should have been guaranteed in the novel. There is nothing about this title that indicates hidden depths, insightful glimpses into human nature, or newfound philosophies on navigating life and love in the 21st century. Instead, the title implies 60,000 words on the most riveting aspects of what is more than likely a bad haircut, a one night stand, and eventually finding Mr. Right in the form of a famous race car driver who finds love in a young hair stylist despite her low income and small social status. Upon winning his biggest race to date, Mr. Wonderful will come racing to her said, prepared to finally reach the culmination of their growing love . . . until, of course, he gets into a car accident with a semi on his way to her home and dies instantly (simmer down, Freud, I understand my predisposition to dislike this particular plot twist). Another love grows, and another bites the proverbial dust. And with this crappy twist, Ms. Mansell, please accept my sincerest invitation to join Ms. Jacobs and Ms. Weiner in my fireplace. Along with your main characters, may each of your books return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Now perhaps I am overly bitter about these books. Perhaps I should accept that even the fluffiest of novelists has a deep burning desire to be more than a featured spot on Target's "Recommended Beach Reads." I can understand that. However, as an avid reader with severely limited time and a dissertation that has yet to write itself, I do feel that in exchange for my $12.99 per book you could at least allow me the privilege of a title that indicates this shift in literary styles, perhaps a new genre, or at the very least a pseudonym that acknowledges you are not going to ride on the wings of your previously fluffy fables in order to sell your newfound devotion to heavy doses of reality. Is that really so much to ask for?