And so I started reading Girl by Blake Nelson because it’s rock and roll June and I was so sick of non-fiction I could barf. Plus, it helped that the book had been sitting my shelf for about six years. And I knew the book was supposed to be about grunge music, alternative nation, and flannel and all that good early to mid-90s hooha. And Nelson has captured the voice of sixteen-year-old girl Andrea Marr so perfectly it’s almost creepy. But then the entire book is just pages and pages of what she wore and whether this eye shadow makes me look slutty and the politics of high school girls and should I have sex with him and now that I’ve had sex with him what does it all mean and Homecoming and driving past his house and starting every other sentence with and. And, really, how much of a sixteen-year-old girl’s diary can you stomach before you want to poke your eyes out? For me it was 130 pages.
I tried, but then this morning when I was reading I found myself saying out loud, “WHO CARES?” It was clear that I didn’t. 130 pages in and I didn’t give a shit if Andrea Marr fucked every character in the book. I didn’t care if she developed anorexia and killed herself.
It’s really hard to make an adult care about a teenager’s story. It’s tough because so many teenage stories are made up of the typical teen angst bullshit we all go through, and survive. I think for a book like this the story has to be unique as does the voice. The voice didn’t work for me, because it sounded like my own sixteen-year-old voice and if I wanted to read boring accounts of going to the mall, I’d go back and ready my journals from 1986.
Damn rock and roll June has been sort of a bust. Now I’m on the prowl from some good Rock and Roll books because so far everything I’ve read has been either boring or disappointing. Boo. Now I’m going to go cleanse my palate with a novel, hopefully it’s a good one.