The first time I read Lorna Landvik’s Patty Jane’s House of Curl, I was a 23-year-old gas station attendant. I remember reading the book late at night laying on my futon in the bedroom I claimed as mine (stolen from Sister #4) in my parents house.
The only thing I remembered about the book was sobbing my face off at the end and loving it.
For comfort in this garbage year as this country continues to ramp up its racist, fascist bullshit, I’ve turned to re-reading favorite books. I’ve been meaning to get back to Patty Jane’s, and today I made the time.
Shocker, it’s not as great as I once thought. It’s like a rough draft of a really good book. The draft where you tell everything and show nothing. It’s cute and pat and relies so heavily on coincidence you kind of wince when you revise it.
HOWEVER, I must report, I still snotted my face off when << SPOILER ALERT >> Harriet dies. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone in the book feels like a real person and you see her death coming on page 12. Yet, I bawled. I blame it on dead sisters getting me every time.