I just finished a fairly light and entertaining read, Little Children by Tom Perrotta. It started out very funny, with highly insightful and biting stereotypes of the women at the playground (we know who we are!). It's mostly about an affair between a stay-at-home mom and a stay-at-home dad, but it hits on other big issues, like the nature of success. I started out wishing I had written it, then realized that it seemed like it could have been written by a friend of mine from graduate school (WWU). It wasn't as funny (overall) as the first chapter promised, but it was good. Pretty light, but a good, quick read. Perfect for those days beside the pool with the kids. Actually, many of the scenes in the book take place at "Town Pool" complete with red bikinis, tanning lotion, and flippers.
I feel like I don't have the right to criticize novels anymore, at least not until I have finished one. It's a miracle anyone ever does, as far as I can tell. But my mind has been cleared. Maybe now I can read some hefty piece of "real" fiction. Maybe I'll alternate (one light, one hefty) for the remainder of the summer.
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