Hey everybody. I know I've been gone a while, and I'm sorry. I really have no excuse beyond my personal laziness and the difficulty of my schooling, and neither of those are shining beacons of get-off-the-hook.
As such, please acccept my apologies. I will try to make one post a month my absolute minimum from now on.
Also, I don't really enjoy standing on a soapbox to share my opinions, so I'm probably going to eliminate the "Thoughts" posts. If I think of something truly brilliant, I'll probably ramble on beneath the "official" review. We'll see how that plays out.
And now--books!
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A version of this review originally appeared in the March 2011 issue of the George C. Marshall high school newspaper Rank & File.
Politics and sentimentality: two great tastes that most assuredly do not taste great together. In Sing You Home, Jodi Picoult delves into the nature of gay and embryonic rights as she narrates a lesbian love story from three different perspectives: that of Zoe, the main character, that of Zoe’s ex-husband, Max, and that of Vanessa, Zoe’s newfound love. Toward the beginning of the book, Max divorces Zoe after she intends to place herself at medical risk to have a baby despite having miscarried three times.
Heartbroken, Zoe meets Vanessa, and over the course of roughly four months their fast friendship blossoms into love. Max, meanwhile, has joined a church to support him in his endeavor to defeat his alcoholism. When Zoe and Vanessa wish to have a baby using frozen embryos previously fertilized by Max, he sues for custody of the embryos with the force of his church behind him.
The overriding problem with Sing You Home is that it tries to be both a heartfelt fictional narrative and a political commentary. Even the best-written books of history have trouble juggling these two goals; and Picoult poured so much research and emotion into her writing that an even balance between the two is impossible.
It plays out like this: In order to craft a compelling narrative, Picoult must paint both sides—Zoe/Vanessa and Max/the Church—in a sympathetic light in order to create emotional tension. However, in order to construct relevant political commentary, Picoult needs to paint the church as the “bad guys.” Clearly, these two aims cannot coexist.
In fact, the rift between these two portrayals is one of the main detractors from the book’s quality. One moment Max’s church is caring and sympathetic, the next they’ve all lined up behind bible-thumper and main antagonist Wade Preston—whose name is almost certainly a jab at the church by Picoult vis a vis Roe v. Wade. By the same token, Zoe is perfectly content with her sexual identity one minute, and then has a flashback to justify it to herself and the reader the next.
Regardless of how Picoult needlessly tinkers with the nature of her characters, they begin the book excessively well characterized. This book makes effective use of a first-person point of view in a way that few others can match. Max’s struggle with alcoholism, narrated from inside his head, is particularly devastating.
Unfortunately, the “twist” ending comes as a direct result of mid-story character shifts, making it both predictable and not much of a proper ending. Such a thing is irksome, to say the least.
While Picoult’s writing is traditionally seeped in what might be termed by the unkind as “sappiness,” her prose reads so quickly that the majority of the overly dramatic portions are only visible in hindsight. While this tends to discourage re-reading the book to a degree, going into the story cold for the first time is a wonderfully visceral experience.
Additionally, many of the most egregiously emotional moments are not constructs of the author, but direct adaptations of events she witnessed or heard of while researching the book. This removes a certain amount of sappy stigma, though there is still plenty to go around. The book comes with its own CD, ostensibly written by Zoe, who is a music therapist. Though the stated goal of the music is to give the reader a look inside Zoe’s head, it feels rather pointless, albeit poignant to listen to. Seeing as one-third of the book is narrated from inside the head of the main character, songs written in the voice of self-same main character fall rather flat as supplementary materials. Also, they don’t sound that great.
In sum, Sing You Home works against itself. The political and emotional halves prevent each other from reaching fruition. That said the ridiculous amount of feeling and research Picoult put into the novel is evident. Even if neither aspect of the story is as amazing as it deserves to be, they are both certainly above average. If you don’t mind lesbians, righteous religious fervor and overflowing emotions, this is a book worth checking out.
3.1/5
