everything I read in November
Spies! Strange tales of the stranger internet! An aughts TV icon! It was a weird month of reading.
Lately: Christmas baking season has gotten off to a (slow) start at my house. I made my first two German chocolate pound cakes on Friday and promptly gave them to my in-laws, which means I need to get the KitchenAid back out and keep going, since I’m desperate to snack on one. (I’m also desperate to publish the recipe here, but I know my mother would kill me if I did, so I won’t. Hi, Mom!) … On that note, here’s a recipe I can share, for Tuscan almond cookies, which I’ve been making each Christmas for the past few years. They’re only a little bit fussy and have been a big hit — and they’re better a day or two after baking, which is an added bonus.
November was a bleak month of books. Some of what I read was quite good, but I struggled to immerse myself in a lot of the books I picked up (with one exception). I felt as if I had a reading hangover all month; every time I wound up in a story good enough to grip me, I followed it with something plodding or unfulfilling. And I berated myself about it, too. I’m usually pretty good at picking books! What was wrong with me? Why was I wasting my time chewing through books that weren’t entertaining me and weren’t making me a better writer?
What I can say about reading in November is that it’s finished, and I’m grateful. In retrospect, I did read a few things I really enjoyed — and I did learn a bit about writing fiction while I was doing it. Onward.
The bright spots
Dead Lions by Mick Herron: I’m back in the world of Slow Horses, and I couldn’t be happier about it. I read (and loved) the first book in the series in June, and Jesse and I recently watched the most recent season of the TV show, which reminded me I needed to make some progress on the books. (My goal is to be caught up to the show by the time the next season comes out, but in a weird reversal, my plan is to always watch before reading. Between the amount of action and all the British-isms, I’m better if I get a visual first.)
Anyways, “Dead Lions” was great. There’s a reason Herron’s books are so successful. The narrative voice is one-of-a-kind, and in this case, I loved the ways the story diverged from the show. As is almost always the case, the book was better than the screen.
The Third Gilmore Girl by Kelly Bishop: I audibly whooped when I got the email that this was waiting for me at the library. Though not usually someone who beelines toward celebrity memoirs1, this was an exception — though Kelly Bishop is hardly the kind of mainstream celebrity whose memoirs usually earn buzz.
I read this over the course of one Sunday morning, sitting at my kitchen counter. It’s breezy and voice-y and takes readers inside the world of Broadway in the 1960s and '70s. Bishop’s voice is honest and vulnerable, and in my mind, I read the whole thing in Emily Gilmore’s gravelly voice.
Mixed feelings
Rejection by Tony Tulathimutte: The opening story in this collection, titled “The Feminist,” is stunning, memorable, aggravating and laugh-out-loud funny. When I finished it, I was certain “Rejection” would end up being one of my favorite books of 2024. I was wrong.
“The Feminist” tells the story of a man determined to be an ally of and advocate for his female friends — though potentially only in service of getting laid, which he never does. His entire life goes rancid in the process. The story veers into internet discourse at points but exists mostly in the offline world, as the narrator veers toward nihilism while his life caves in.
The balance between on- and offline was what did me in as I kept reading. As the book progressed, the stories veered so far into social media back-and-forths and the depths of the internet that I started to lose interest. Maybe I’m just allergic to the suggestion of screens in the moments I carve out away from mine. But either way, I lost interest as I kept reading — though I’d happily pick up that opening essay and read it start to finish again.
Tabula Rasa by John McPhee: I think I came to “Tabula Rasa” looking for all the wrong things. I was hoping for a book on writing, and instead I found a book about the seeds that become (and fail to become) full-fledged stories. In fact, this book should have been right in my wheelhouse; it was like romp through Wikipedia, if Wikipedia existed on paper. And there’s nothing I love more than wondering about one specific thing and winding up learning about it, and a corollary, and a corollary of that corollary.
If you’re curious to learn about the subjects that both interested and eluded one of the greatest writers of creative non-fiction, pick up this book. I’d like to re-read it someday when my mind is more attuned to this kind of storytelling. When I’m thinking more about journalism than fiction, from a professional standpoint.
I couldn’t quite get immersed
I’m Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself by Glynnis MacNicol: I loved — loved! — MacNicol’s first memoir, “No One Tells You This,” which I read in September while I patiently waited for my library hold to come up on this one. In “I’m Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself,” MacNicol checks in about six years after the end of her previous book, soon after being vaccinated against covid in 2021 and thus freed from a year of near-solitude. She goes to Paris for a month and chronicles her adventures in app dating and sumptuous meals, which is to say: I was certain I’d enjoy this story.
And I did, at times, but I wasn’t always sure what message MacNicol was trying to convey. In her first memoir, I felt as if she were opening her arms and inviting readers to sit and gab with her, to understand her motivations and passions and the path she’d chosen. This time around, she came across as defensive, as if she was already anticipating readers’ disdain for the sex and gluttony that defined her vacation. (It turns out I’m not the only one who felt this way; I just read the New York Times’ review after typing that last sentence, and the reviewer had similar impressions.) Over and over, I thought: What about those of us who aren’t disdainful, who want to hear about this period of freedom and reflection and cheer you on?
A Bigamist’s Daughter by Alice McDermott: If you keep up with these monthly book emails, you know I’ve become an Alice McDermott enthusiast. After reading “Absolution” and “After This,” (and, years ago, “Someone”), I decided it was time to open McDermott’s debut.
I never regret reading the first novel by an author I love. It’s rare those books live up to my expectations, but that’s natural. Find me someone whose first story is their best. So instead of waiting to be awed, I remind myself: Look for the signs of the writer you love, and look at how they’ve changed.
“A Bigamist’s Daughter” was a strange book. Its plot is full of exceedingly normal action, but it comes together into an arc that totally flummoxed me. Elements felt debilitatingly old-fashioned — the repeated use of the word “bigamist,” for one! — and I had a hard time connecting with the characters’ motivations. That’s probably due to my own limitations and the warping effects of time, but it made for a disjointed reading experience. Even so, I loved seeing where McDermott started, glimpsing the depictions of fraught family life and the specter of Catholicism that I’ve come to love in her work.
I will admit that I’ve got another on the docket: Ina Garten’s.