Review--What Does It Feel LIke? By Sophie Kinsella

 

Your Bohemian Crip is a huge fan of Sophie Kinsella’s work.  Honestly, this is one time I’d pass up the Thrill of Representation to know that somebody whose work cheered me up so much just…went on to have a long happy life that we helped pay for. I gladly would, as her work has cheered me up and enlivened waiting rooms for me many times.  As if there were some kinds of Congress of Happiness, only somewhat effective.

But I doubt that such a body would deliver satisfaction for everyone any more than actual Congress. But I wish, in addition to my million other wishes. (It’s difficult blogging when the news cycle is nonstop crisis—makes me feel that I’ve been writing this post for years, not weeks, it should be noted)

Kinsella’s latest work, the novella “What Does It Feel Like?” traces the diagnosis and treatment of women’s-fiction novelist, Eve, married to her college sweetheart, who switched styles mid-career and succeeds in ways that match her wildest dreams by taking her own advice and “writing the book you want to read”. From there there’s the occasional bit of glamour, but Eve settles in to raising her kids and trying hard to get a book out every year or two.  Until she starts losing her balance and forgetting things.

(Which is sadder for her family, even as it’s darkly funny that she forgets that’s what happened from time to time).

 Eve-Sophie-Madeline has a brain tumor, glioblastoma, which makes the creation of this book into a real accomplishment over and above the way she usually writes with humor, heart, and a knack for letting girlie thinking save the day.  Following surgery to remove the tumor (I think? Not altogether clear on the medical part, only partially due to the novel being told in snippets) but I know she did a lot of rehabs, and that Brits call walkers Zimmer frames. I looked it up, hoping Mr.  Zimmer had a magic elfin hollow tree or something fascinating, but a company named Zimmer developed the first versions of the walking aid at the beginning of the last century.

Sometimes we read fiction because real life isn’t compelling. Sometimes because it’s mean.