I brought this Smith novel along for a weekend with my vibrant college friends and tried to see them as these characters: no go. Although there were some (extremely implausible) exciting plot points and a feminist core, it was buried under calorie fixation and pale blue tank tops. Boring. And even Sullivan’s buddies at the NYT pointed out that one (brooklyn based) character’s drinking problem is unexamined, even though she memorably wakes up alone and covered in blood.
However, she wrote the whole damn thing and sold it and has 40 people still on the waitlist to read it in my suburban library system. I will take that as inspiration.
