READING ROMANCE: EASY, BREEZY, INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM & THE HEROINES OF JASMINE GUILLORY

Something I've really been loving recently, is the coverage of the fifth anniversary of the #WeNeedDiverseBooks movement, and the progress achieved across the scope and genres of publishing since then. One such read was this article from Bustle, which checked in with people across such boundaries, providing testimony for the kind of change being enacted in this vital section of global media. Naturally, I immediately forwarded it to a handful of bookish friends, so we could all share in the celebration! 

While the article specifically highlights authors and publishers specific to audiences like Young Adult and Children's book enthusiasts, they're far from the only ones undergoing some measurable changes. In particular, the Romance genre has been making room and taking a stand, across several different popular series and authors... and the trend started a lot earlier than just five years ago. The rise of the African-American period romance - thanks in no small part to Beverly Jenkins - began in the '90s, and has since carved out a path in what was otherwise a fairly White genre, while more and more casts of multiracial, varied-perspectived characters can be found throughout shelves every year, like in Alisha Rai's Hate to Want You series (a personal favorite). These developments not only serve to better the plots of stories, and the perspectives of their reader, but also lay the groundwork for increased diversity and visibility for authors across publishing in the future.

However, dissenters abound, as they do in opposition to every major movement, and these kinds of new, necessary stories have their haters, too. What was wrong with the way things were? Romance, as a genre, has long been held up as a haven of escapist fiction... could inviting complicated discussions of things like race, jeopardize that status, or turn off new readers? 

The lady herself!

Enter Jasmine Guillory. Conversations about racial differences are an expected subject in each of her novels, and yet, they're lauded by everyone from the best-seller charts, to Reese Witherspoon. Her books are wonderful, and draw a stark line through such criticisms of the #WeNeedDiverseBooks initiative. Why? Because they're not just well-written romances, with compelling plots, quick pacing, and a lovable fleet of characters, but because she approaches her subjects with a stunning degree of empathy, tact, and understanding. In short, her books are so good, and her moves so subtle, that you might not even realize you're reflecting on these kinds of issues while reading. 

Here are just a few of the ground-level ways Jasmine Guillory uses her books - like The Wedding Date and The Proposal, as well as recent release The Wedding Party - to prioritize intersectional feminist narratives within the Romance genre: 

• Each of her books is led by a black woman main character, which not only centers race in the narrative, but provides plenty of room for empathizing and personalizing situations that arise over the course of the story. 
• For instance, during The Wedding Date - when the lead character Alexa gets an unexpected invite by a stranger to be his "plus one" for, you guessed it, a wedding - one of the questions she asks, is whether there will be anyone else who looks like her at this event. The answer is no, and the plot progresses from that point with ease... but it's a question that brings attention to that detail, and emphasizes a social point which, up until she asks, might not have even been on the reader's radar. The fact that the answer is a negative, highlights a mental cue for the reader to observe and understand. 
• Meanwhile, in The Proposal, Nikole ends up meeting Alexa while on a double date, and excitedly asks her confused love interest why he didn't mention to her that the other woman in question would also be black. Any confusion as to why she'd need that information, is answered when Nikole and Alexa share a sweet bonding moment, specifically referencing their shared perspectives. While it wasn't a point of importance for either of their dates, its a vital one for them. 
• At the same time, this is also an example of Guillory's ability to write characters whose internal monologues realistically reflect on their own identities in real-time, which, in turn, effects how they approach these interactions, or make decisions that affect other people. 
• In The Wedding Date, Alexa undergoes a series of difficult situations, as men from various social events she attends specifically target her for her race: an inebriated wedding guest makes unwanted sexual overtures involving her status as a black woman, while attending a party results in a conversation containing the cringe-y "Where are you from?" question. In both situations, we watch Alexa reckon with her personal feelings, and attempt to navigate the resulting differences as gracefully as possible, in a way that feels transparent and clear enough to translate to those who have never had to undergo those kinds of experiences. 
• In The Proposal, we see Nikole grapple with why her boyfriend of only five months, dopey blonde actor Fisher, has asked her to marry him in a embarrassingly public display (the Jumbotron at a Dodgers game, on which her name is misspelled). Not only does Nik reflect on what her relationship with him was like, but her mental re-organization of how both of their backgrounds played into his decision to propose, highlights why this difference was important. In the end, Fisher acknowledges this himself: he confesses that no one takes him seriously as an actor, and that he thought being with Nik - a successful black writer - raised his reputation and credibility. 
• Guillory has received plenty of accolades for centering her romances around black heroines, but her entire cast is similarly filled with compelling and relatable side characters from a wide variety of backgrounds, all approached with the same level of care. With special attention paid to diversity in perspectives across race, gender, sexuality, etc., each of the cast is involved and empathetic in regards to the romantic plight, defying tokenization and playing key roles in the development of the primary relationship. 
• For instance, in The Proposal alone, Nikole's two best friends are Korean-American and plus size, and African-American and lesbian, while the love interest's family heritage is Mexican-American. Their backgrounds play deliberately into the plot, and all participate in openly reflecting on such elements of their own lives, while helping our heroine navigate hers. Their advice, reflections, and experiences benefit those of Nikole, and - despite the fact Guillory's audience might never have come into contact with anyone from those backgrounds before - they are realistic and relatable enough to connect to readers, as well. 
• Destructive, anti-feminist tropes get a swift boot, via her uplifting and abundant emphasis on the importance of female friendships, as well as the robust and active career lives of women. Not only are Guillory's characters women, but they are strong, unique women, who are not afraid to confront not only racial discrimination or stereotyping, but also antiquated perspectives on catty competition, or gender roles. 
• Positive relationships with women are a priority for Guillory, who spoke to Hello Sunshine Book Club earlier this year about why her own friends served as such strong influences in how she wrote The Proposal. Both Alexa and Nikole are surrounded by networks of ambitious, caring women, who challenge them out on their mistakes, and support them in the moments where they're needed most. Even situations that start out as fodder for the kinds of mean-girl moments that are romance novel bread-and-butter - like the bouquet toss of a wedding, or a party held by a new boyfriend's ex-girlfriend - end up progressing in meaningful ways, with new friendships made, instead of enemies. 
• Both Alexa and Nikole are, individually and by their own effort, successful career women, and both ambition and female entrepreneurship serve as strong focuses among secondary characters. Alexa serves as the chief of staff of the mayor of Berkeley, who not only has the skills to succeed in her job, but lift others up with her, championing the cause for local community art projects for disenfranchised youth. Nikole's career as a freelance writer is thrown into jeopardy - due to the negative connotations associated with turning down a public, viral proposal - but not only is she able to navigate the situation with aplomb, but she write herself a comeback, by covering a female-owned gym that she has begun attending regularly for self-defense classes. Not only are they in strong job positions, but it is important for both to use these roles to lift up other women, as well. 
• (There's a good reason for it, too: Guillory herself is a Stanford Law graduate.) 

Clearly, Guillory has made intersectional feminism a focus of her personal writing style, and it makes for not only compelling and enthralling romance novels, but important reads for issues of that nature. Interactions between characters demonstrate effective problem-solving, and model productive conversations, about the intersections of race and relationships in a positive, easy to understand way, which readers can observe and empathize with. The women - and men - who fill the pages of these novels represent complex and multi-layered perspectives of race, gender, sexuality, socioeconomic background, etc., but none of those boundaries block any of them from pursuing the reason we covet this genre so much: True Love. 

There's definitely something effortless about the way Guillory writes romance, like in THE WEDDING DATE, but that's not to say that the plots themselves lack deliberate care. Instead, the realistic nature of the stress that tests her main characters' relationship - misinterpreting signals, lack of clear communication, focus on jobs and family - lends a sense of relatability to the proceedings, that almost make it was pulled from real life. Maybe it all feels so effortless, because it could have been inspired by any number of real relationships playing out across the LA area, like hers do.

Intimate, personable, and immediately engrossing - like hearing about the new guy your friend's been seeing over drinks - the story drives forward because of how tangible the characters feel, no doubt helped by Guillory's tendency towards fully-fleshed, unique and understandable casts.

 

THE PROPOSAL is an airy, un-bothered LA romance that was sunny and sweet, without requiring much mental exertion to keep the plot moving. The main characters are well-off and well-settled in their metropolitan landscape, and are free from any more intense issues plaguing their lives, than coping with bad press (which Nik does easily), and Carlos' cousin's difficult pregnancy (which resolves mainly without his input). This frees them both up to fall in love with each other rather easily. 

 My one disappointment, was that I was a little bummed that the title event of the novel is tidily wrapped up within the first twenty pages or so. There is no lead up to the event at all, with the whole thing transpiring within the first few pages, and very little explanation as to why Nik and Fisher were together in the first place. Still, the event got its closure, in a way that was relevant to Guillory's theming, and it allowed Nik to move on... to a much, much happier ever after! 

Have you read any of Jasmine Guillory's books before? Which is your favorite? Let me know, in the comments below!

READING ROMANCE: HEAs, FORMULA PLOTTING, AND MY LADY'S CHOOSING

One of the primary claims leveled by literary critics against the romance novel genre, is that it's formulaic: chop up a few tropes you prefer, warm over either a slow burn or blistering heat at your fancy, sprinkle in a couple social conventions and haphazardly constructed hurdles, and you'll find yourself cozied up with a new steamy read in no time, right?

The problem isn't necessarily the claim itself, because claims of literary merit or lack thereof don't really bother the one of the top performing literary genres on market... especially one you can reliably find standing right alongside the other top performing genre, Mystery/Thriller, on the mass market paperback ledges of grocery store checkout stands across the country, a genre that is leveled its fair share of similar criticisms. 

However, the issue of this condemnation does arise when the pursuit of a happy ending is portrayed of some form of social conversion, or emotional bondage. When the idea of romance novel heroines (or heroes) achieving happiness is equated with oppression, overly aggressive patriarchal values, or gratuitous feminine submission, then it becomes a very clear and direct problem, indeed.

If these sorts of grandiose doomsday comparisons sound crazy to you, then please don't pin their origin on me. I'd like to welcome you to the absolute-dealing world of romance novel literary criticism, where past critics of the genre have leveled such claims as these:

In her 1970 work of literary criticism, The Female Eunuch, Germaine Greer criticizes that “the traits invented for the hero in romance novels have been invented by women cherishing the chains of their bondage.” According to this line of thinking, all romance heroes are not only homogeneous, but they are united in their objective: to conform the reader to accepting subjugation. 

In Leslie W. Rabine's 1985 piece, "Reading the Romantic Heroine: Text, History, Ideology," she comments specifically on a particularly publishing house with a standardized format rising to popularity in the genre at the time, claiming that, “Harlequins work to recuperate women’s subversive fantasies into structures of patriarchal power.” In this way, romance novels utilize tantalizing scenes of deviant behavior, as a reaffirmation of specifically male dominance and traditionalist social organization. 

 Janice A. Radway's 1991 essay "Reading the Romance: History, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature", touches on the typical happy ending of the romance novel specifically, stating that it “reaffirms its founding culture’s belief that women are valuable not for their unique personal qualities, but for their biological sameness and their ability to perform that essential role of maintaining and reconstituting others.” If this argument is correct, all romance plots must result in a directly heterosexual breeding relationship, one that ideally ends in offspring. 

However, each of those sharp-worded dismissals of the formula, the stereotyping, and the "Happily Ever After" (HEAs) was written a minimum of two decades ago! They are firm in their convictions of epilogues long past, but do their words still ring true now? What can formulaic plot progressions and HEAs look like in the 21 Century? 

Well... it doesn't get much more formulaic than a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel, now does it? Enter Kitty Curan and Larissa Zageris' 2018 "Interactive Romance Novel," My Lady's Choosing. 

Relying on typified plot progressions, easily recognizable character tropes that don't require additional backstory, familiar dialogue, all building to any number of acceptable HEAs... it sounds like a good place to get a base reading on what kinds of plot building blocks and generic endings might be typical of the genre these days.

And to be clear, this book can tell you a lot about happy endings: it's got over twenty. 

To briefly explain the plot: this novelty novel is set in the conventions of any popular period romance, and follows you, a shy and cowed lady's companion with a heart of gold, attempting to escape the dreary life of one among the ton of London, by way of the following presented main romantic avenues:

• Benedict, a kind of Pride and Prejudice Darcy stand-in commonly found wandering the bookshelves of the historical romance section... a verbal sparring partner whom your character can easily match, parry for thrust (wink wink). 

• Angus, a sweet-meaning Scot, whose peers in the genre have been gaining popularity in the historical romance section since the popularity of the Outlander TV show. (It's about the kilts, isn't it?)

• Craven, a brooding Gothic hero who comes complete with all of the Bronte accessories. like an open waistcoat, untamed locks, a crumbling castle, and a neglected ward. Will you be the one to soothe his tortured soul? 

Each of the three is a model specimen, cut from a specific literary figure, one that is easily recognizable to those in the genre. Not only are they expected formats for a hero to take, but they have their own particular brand of paratextual street cred. Who you might not necessarily expect, is the fourth romantic figure... 

• Evangeline, a brazen, blonde beauty with a penchant for Egyptian hieroglyphics, is a much more modern kind of lady. Also, kind of like if both Brendan Frasier and Rachel Weisz's characters in the Mummy movies were combined.

If Benedict, Angus, and Craven are models based off of heroes long known, Evangeline shines a greater light on the kinds of novels growing popular in the genre today, as LGBT-centric storylines begin to really take a foothold. But so what does one different kind of hero(ine) have to do with anything? That doesn't mean that the stories don't end with generic, patriarchal, reproductive-oriented endings that reassert the dominance of traditional romance novel structures. 

Do all 20 patterns of the happy endings you can achieve in this novel subscribe to the kinds of claims being leveled at the genre? Do any? 

In short, no. In long, here's a list: 

1. The hero you expect, might not be the one who wins you over in the end. While the plot lines presented four neat pathways to pursue, each contained at least two or three alternative options, including side characters, villains, and more. No more standardized alpha male format, nameless six-pack-bedecked torsos upon which to fit swappable handsome heads: varying widely across the spectrum, your choices beyond the main characters included a meek librarian, villainous phantom, or a brooding mercenary, among many others. In fact, the most deliberately erotic and explicitly happy ending, was with a well-meaning, eager-to-please and moderately socially-mobile nerd! 
2. The heroine doesn't have to end up married (let alone with kids). I was actually surprised at a number of happy endings that resulted in the main character making the choice to fly solo. Often these were structured around the existence of a male counterpart - choosing to con around America with a man you neither love or plan to marry, or becoming a spy against the Bonapartists for the English military with an ex as your partner - but an emphasis was placed on remaining an independent woman, if not in proximity, then in mind. And naturally, one of the final endings you could achieve, resulted in your character marrying extremely old and disgustingly rich... only to have your husband collapse from a heart attack shortly after the union, leaving you a very, very wealthy widow.
3. In another surprise move, there were examples where the heroine did not even end the book as the main character anymore. This is a hell of a way to circumvent claims of standardized endings, which would typically assume the the character of most importance at the start of the book, would surely finish the same way. However, there were several endings - usually after pursuing a romance with the side characters - where the reader was deliberately noted as having given up the position of the main, taking the backseat of a self-referenced fictional series or two to help support one of the other flashy characters in the story line, effectively becoming a background character in someone else's story. There might be the argument to this point, that this actually bolsters claims of subjugation, but I offer the counterpoint: in doing so, you aren't just given the freedom of choice... you can also have the freedom to remove yourself from the expected narrative entirely. 
4. Morality standards - especially those in line with patriarchal values - don't exactly apply to all happy endings. In fact, there are multiple options where the main character is given the opportunity to take a not-exactly-morally-sound route out: not necessarily just in choosing to romance a villain instead, but also running off with your a band of pirates, or deciding to invest in opening a brothel, using one of your new bookish acquaintances as your first employee (Not kidding). 
5. And finally, just because something follows a trope-heavy path, doesn't necessarily mean that that's restricted to one solitary outcome, which according to critics, would require marriage to the primary hero, and constraint of the female main character to traditional feminine roles. But the prospect of a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel betrays that very assumption, by not only veering away from one expected answer, but instead, throwing as many at you as possible! For instance, my favorite set of endings for a main story line revolved around our Gothic hero: as a result of various choices, you can end up exorcising a ghost, defeating an evil butler, turning into a werewolf, and marrying a vampire, or, alternatively, the village postman. It also gives you the out of fleeing the estate entirely, and starting up again on one of the other romantic paths. How's that for formula plotting? 

In total, My Lady's Choosing doesn't just refute antiquated claims of the lesser nature of romance novels, due to their supposed pre-determined progression and anti-feminist endings, but it dismantles them entirely, leading the reader to question the myriad of ways a story can end while still considering it to have best serves the heroine. The format of the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure romance, as it turns out, only encourages something we already knew. As romance novelist Suzanne Simmons Guntrum posed in "Happily Ever After: The Ending As Beginning": "So why read a novel when we already know how it is going to end? Because it is the process, not the conclusion, that we are reading for." 

My Lady's Choosing relies on tropes and stereotypical conventions of the genre - the mysterious revelation of parenthood, finding a hidden diary, espionage and handsome rogues, etc - in order to keep the pacing of the novel going, despite its frequent starts and stops. Very tongue-in-cheek, self-referential, and more than a little silly on the meta-text, the language is very familiar to romance novel enthusiasts, with plenty of euphemisms to keep readers laughing, perhaps in an attempt to excuse the difficulties in following along seamlessly. Flipping between pages may grow frustrating, but at least its easier to follow when characters are easily identifiable; for instance, one plot line plays host to a villain by the name of Caddington... shortened to Cad.  

On one hand, I was impressed with the levels of detail and difference between each of the contrasting story lines, while on the other hand, the limited amount of space they have to develop these plots into anything further or more substantial leaves them a little unfulfilling. In some ways, these elements of the novel - obvious and bold cardboard characters, fast-paced and humorous plots with lack of meaningful development, deliberately filthy humor - line up not necessarily to the real practice of romance novels, but instead, what's expected of them. It's not the genuine article, but the knock-off everyone's so quick to judge... which for a novelty novel like this one, makes for a good laugh, and an entertaining afternoon. 

When's the last time you picked up a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel? How about a good romance? Let me know, in the comments below!

TAYLOR JENKINS REID: DAISY, EVELYN, AND MEDIATED INTIMACY

Daisy Jones and the Six and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo are both enormously popular recent works from novelist Taylor Jenkins Reid, published within the last couple of years. The former was released just this last year to immediate fanfare, quickly climbing best seller lists (with a popularity no doubt bolstered after having been optioned the summer before its publication, for an Amazon miniseries produced by Reese Witherspoon). These novels are award-winners, critical favorites, and both boast Goodreads ratings above a 4.2.

Their overwhelmingly positive receptions and popularity are not the only things these two books have in common, though. In fact, there's something notable about Reid's construction of their narratives that these two bestsellers share.

In terms of plot and theming, there's already plenty of points of comparison. The two female main characters - Daisy and Evelyn - occupy settings that serve as obvious similarities: both of their stories involve attaining success in a major entertainment industry (music and movies, respectively), during a specific cultural zeitgeist (the '70s California rock scene, and '50s Hollywood). Most importantly, both of their stories are told as retrospectives.

In fact, each book's past-gazing narrative is relayed through a deliberately mediated format: for Daisy, it's an oral history of the band's meteoric rise, as told by its members, crew, production, and family, while for Evelyn, it's a long-awaited memoir, detailed firsthand, by an aging screen siren. Instead of orienting the narrative specifically in the perspectives of Daisy and Evelyn, their firsthand accounts are couched within the greater perspectives of those to whom they detail the story, with the band's account transcribed and arranged by a narrator who remains unidentified (until the very end), and Evelyn's story kept mostly intact, by a magazine writer interviewing her.

As it turns out, both of those frameworks were chosen very deliberately, with references made to real nonfiction works. For instance, one of the influences for Evelyn, was revealed by Reid, to be the notable memoir of the legendary actress Ava Gardner, whose candid and catty reflections on her ex-husbands and peers of the big screen, told to journalist Peter Evans, were only published after both of them had passed. Meanwhile, Reid's inspiration for Daisy and the Six's oral history was similarly straightforward: as the author told Rolling Stone earlier this year, "I wanted it to feel like the three-hour 'History of the Eagles' documentary."

Another similarity? Each of their narrators is teased to be linked to both Daisy and Evelyn's accounts, in some capacity, but the connection is only made known in an eleventh hour reveal. To avoid spoilers, I'll try casing it in as rudimentary terms as possible: both are daughters, related to the main narrative by an outer spoke on the wheel of social connection, one not immediately related to either Daisy or Evelyn.

This generational and social circle displacement is tied to the sense of offset connection displayed throughout the text. And to be clear, this sense of distance, is one of the elements of both of these novels, that makes them so successful in telling engrossing, emotional stories. 

In this way, Daisy and Evelyn, while given the opportunity to tell their own stories in their own words, are not the primary narrators. And yet, both Monique and the band's narrator are still kept separate from these main characters, too, but in the foreground of the story itself: a generation and social connection removed, ties kept secret, but the mouthpieces through which the story is voiced.

And yet, this emphasis of removal and distance, belies and enables a very particular sense of intimacy, truth, and personality. Everything about their narrators and narrative style speaks to mediation - especially in the specifically mediated format of interviews - but the main character perspectives themselves are what draw you in, make you feel like you're privy to some grander truth. It's just that their personal stories, which no other narrator can speak to experiencing, are told through the lens of a different narrator entirely, one whose relationship to them is kept in the dark.

It is this duality that makes Daisy Jones and the Six and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo feel so compelling, like having someone whisper a secret, while still holding you at arm's length. It leaves room in the story structure for interest, big reveals and plot twists, because either the framework or the narrative isn't ready for you to have access to that particular piece of the puzzle.

Without this sense of mediation - if Evelyn was simply published containing only a firsthand account of her story, or if Daisy only illustrated her place in the band through her own eyes - you would miss out on not only the greater perspective on each of these characters, outside their own self-image, but you would lose the capacity for movement, embellishment, reaction, and dynamics in the story, without jeopardizing the integrity of the firsthand sense of truth. But with the imposed framework and structure of mediated storytelling, Reid was able to create these opportunities, for making the story greater than just just one limited view.

As the narrative resolves at the end of each book, so too do those cages disappear, with connections between the narrator, and their respective storytellers, having finally been established clearly. The whole truth is told. The limelight Daisy and Evelyn chased is finally enough to light the whole stage, so you can see the complex context of its major players, and the all of the twists, characters, lies, and intersections, for what they are: a damn good story.

Daisy Jones and the Six allows each character to tell their own story, without losing any of what's hidden behind the dialogue. The novel is told in a really unexpected form of what I'd have to classify as epistolary format: a group interview that spans a catalog of specific, unique characters, in a riff on a band documentary, telling the collective story of fictional '70s California rock outfit, Daisy Jones and the Six. Through their various interviews, all six members of the musical group, plus Daisy, family, friends, production, and assorted backstage members of their various entourages are all given full-fledged personalities, motivations, interpersonal relationships and faults. 

One of my favorite elements of the novel was that while the rampant drug and alcohol use was obviously a forefront issue, for the most part, this story didn't have a true blue, cut-in-an-image consistent villain. Daisy might be interpreted as a kind of primary antagonist, as she's the one ruffling the most feathers, and lead singer Billy might be slated in the same role, as his actions and characterization can come off as the most abrasive or detrimental, but neither is working towards any kind of negative goal. They're both absurdly narcissistic and tunnel-minded, and end up creating their own issues, but the villain that emerges more is a lack of a sense of communication, and an unwillingness to listen or empathize... a smart choice for a book that re-mediates a form of communication itself, and calls on its reader to derive emotion from a challenging perspective. (Definitely for fans of movies like Almost Famous or A Star is Born.) 

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo - the fictional tell-all of an aging starlet, as told to a young reporter - clips along somewhat benignly, until it hits a major curve, and you think, "Wow, that's a  little early for a plot twist." But that's how life is: surprising things happen along the way, but the world keeps turning. It means a lot that the major drive of pacing for SHoEH feels less catalyzed by major character decisions or plot contrivance, but by the gentle gravity of things falling together. As one character remarks of Evelyn's star beauty, it feels "inevitable." Reid does an excellent job of not only making things feel real, but feel that that's really the way things would have worked out, had the story been grounded in reality.  

If anything, reality was the biggest problem I had with this book. As with any novel set in a defined space and time, with key cultural and historical factors addressed within its pages, there comes the frustrating act of shoving a new piece into a puzzle that is already completed. Reid does an excellent job generating a world - Hollywood of the second half of the 20th Century, of course - that closely mirrors that which already exists... but this sense of believability made it near impossible to shove in alongside information you already know and have. Besides, there's too much opportunity for comparison: for instance, Evelyn's litany of husbands being clearly influenced by Elizabeth Taylor's, had me constantly mining for clear or tagged in-jokes. While some pieces of the puzzle are obvious - Vivant as a stand-in approximation of Vogue, most readily - it makes the less trackable pop culture twins stick out. Still, I read this book, for the most part, on a camping trip, while huddling in my sleeping bag, desperate not to scratch the mosquito bites that had sprung up along my chest and arm. The fact that I could be trapped in those conditions, and yet still transported to the Hollywood of a long-ago decade, should tell you enough about the success of Reid's world-building. 

Have you read any of Taylor Jenkins Reid's works? What do you think about this kind of narrative framework? Can you think of any that ring similar? Let me know, in the comments below!