Leah McLaren, The Continuity Girl, 2006.

I read McLaren's column each week in the Globe. I am... more of Russell Smith's camp, when it comes to how I feel about McLaren. She writes of a world that I don't wish to be part of, but does it with sufficient verve and insight that I read the column.

The story is that of Meredith Moore, a script supervisor--who manages to get fired twice--desperate to have a child, belaboured with hippy and wacky mother, heavy-drinking unstable friend, and an odd relationship with her gynecologist. Yes, you read that correctly: and yes, such a summary should be enough to convince you not to read the book. Just to reinforce that conclsion, I will say the following.

The book is trite, and unimpressive. I'm not a fan of the term chick-lit, or the ubiquitous references to Sex & the City (Toby Young's blurb on the back cover reads "Leah McLaren is Canada's Carrie Bradshaw and a wit for the ages."), but I'm at a loss for describing the book in any other terms. It is disposable, relies heavily on more than one happy deus ex machina, and reads like a month-old, four-times warmed-over version of Twelfth Night.

So. Waste of time, could have been reading something good, and far too long an entry on such a book. Now, to go re-read The Undertaking for a paper.

Jessica Cutler, The Washingtonienne, 2005.

At times, what I read depresses me. I read this because... because I was reading Wonkette two summers ago? And thus read the blog on which this was based? Really, I have no defence.

It's crap. Absolute, mindless crap that doesn't even rate me calling it pulp. The book is poorly written and plotted; it's a thinly re-worked version of Cutler's blog detailing her paramours/method for paying rent via... what is essentially prostitution. Lots of dirty sex, lots of drug use, more alcohol than I've read about. Well, no, not really. But it's poorly written. Stick with the blog: it's shorter. Save yourself the time. If you want to read about sex, find some decent erotica. If you want to read about drugs, go read some Brett Easton Ellis. But save yourself the hour it would take to read this dreck.

What truly baffles me is the prose that claims to be taking a step back and reflecting, and yet at the same time is so clearly self-involved and narcissistic that any decent editor should have made some effort to get Cutler to rewrite long segments. Oi with the poodles already. Find something decent to read, self.

Kyle Smith, Love Monkey.

Love Monkey is a wacky and entertaining story of an infatuation, a romance, a love-story, an unrequited sob-story. It's in the same vein as Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, a story of a man hopeless in love, and throws in a good wallopping dash of Manchild (with the protagonist at 30ish instead of 50ish).

Tom Farrell is a low-grade almost-editor at a trashy New York tabloid who falls for Julia in what he calls "doses" of her. A man who's not quite sure what he wants, other than her, Farrell's misadventures along his path reveal the author's insights into the nuances of relationships. Moreover, Smith brings new punch to traditional stereotypes of how men and women behave in the big city.

A paean to New York, the book loses much of its energy when it begins to depict the events of September 11, 2001. The writing falls into clichés, the love stories fall away, and what made the book entertaining to that point starts to wane.

All in all, it's a fun divertissement, but nothing special. Just another book that's not bad--and I'll certainly keep my eye out for Smith's next novel--but I wish I could remember what prompted me to place a hold on it in the first place.

Diane Johnson, Le Mariage

I think this ends my reading of Ms. Johnson's works. This one had less to recommend it than the previous two (Le Divorce and L'Affaire). On the other hand, this one taught me some more naughty French words, which come to think of it, are rather unlikely to come in handy. It also introduced me Gary Snyder's poetry. Some of which I'm enjoying. Otherwise, shmeh.

Diane Johnson, L'Affaire
Some more good pulp; some more recovery of my brain.

A wealthy (& quite nice) American, abroad in France, attempting self-improvement, offers her assistance to a family, following a skiing accident. Now, this is Diane Johnson of Le Divorce (also some quite good pulp; better indeed, in my mind, than this outing) fame, so what happens is all suitably amusing & complicated--the new wife, in a coma; the children of the brain-dead husband, legitimate and not; the scheming & the troubles--and therein we have our plot.

This is a pleasant book. Light, and fluffy, its only serious matter is the usual, for a Johnson novel: the differences between les Americaines and the French. One blurb on the back cover says that "If one were to cross Jane Austen and Henry James, the result would be Diane Johnson"; I reassure you all, be not afeard, because of such a remark. It's not quite at that level. It's fun.

Vous vous amuserez.

Aha! Some good pulp, finally.

Anna Davis' Cheet is the story of a young female cab driver in London. Juggling work and five complicated lovers, Kathryn Cheet's life is a bit too complicated, even for her. The book reads like a much more interesting Bridget Jones. More importantly, this is pulp at its finest: a hint of mystery, a hint of literary pretensions [without slipping into the annoying], and some sex combine in an amusing and enjoyable quick read.