Adolescence has never felt so… adult

It really is a shame that Curtis Sittenfeld is constantly categorized as a chick lit writer. The genre classification works well for her book sales (and the spunky cover art that goes along with it doesn’t hurt), but her novels are far too complex and well, frustrating. I don’t mean frustrating in a bad way, I mean frustrating in an “I want to smack this character in the face while simultaneously giving her a big hug and a huge dosage of Prozac” sort of a way. Chick lit, by definition, is not supposed to be frustrating; it’s meant to provide a witty and mindless pathway to a happy ending, complete with romance and closure (i.e. Lisa Jewell). In Sittenfeld’s second novel, The Man of My Dreams, closure seems rather ambivalent. Was this intentional on Sittenfeld’s part? I have no idea. What I do know is that the writer seems to push the boundaries of conventional chick lit, and that makes her work more than just a guilty pleasure. 

After the publication of her first novel, Prep, Sittenfeld was compared to J.D. Salinger for her depiction of a neurotic, passive, yet totally relatable teenager from Indiana who comes of age in a New England boarding school. The Man of My Dreams follows a similar formula, minus the boarding school. The novel’s protagonist Hannah Gavenor is like Holden Caulfield, but with large breasts and an affinity for celebrity gossip. 

No one knows the angst-ridden adolescent brain like Curtis Sittenfeld. Reading her books makes me want to listen to the Jonas Brothers while reading Twilight. Okay, perhaps I can do without the Jonas Brothers. 

I am looking forward to American Wife, which will hopefully prove itself to be a good summer read.