Tanya Shadrick

There's no question that Tanya Shadrick knows how to write. Her sentences flow, her images are memorable, and she uses language in fresh ways.
My problem with this book is its frequent tone of self-pity and the way in which the author used her unhappiness to justify regrettable behavior. She had a difficult childhood (but not of the horrific variety, like being beaten daily or starved and tortured, for example). She didn't really want children but had them because her husband did (and so we have to hear throughout this book her kudos to herself - how she rose at 5 a.m. to make the children breakfast). She longed to do more but was at home taking care of those kids; "Had he [my husband] not left the house unannounced every weekday in this first decade of child-rearing to catch whatever train he chose, directed only by his meeting schedule? Why might I not have just a few Fridays and my weekends through this unrepeatable season to take my fences, riderless? To see how far and fast I could go without the weight of the house, the children?" To which I would reply: Work - that wondrous place to which you believe your husband left each day - is hardly the life of freedom, fun and self-discovery. But of course you have an artist's soul, isn't that right, Tanya, which should guarantee you what: The right to do whatever you want, free of responsibility yet able to access the money your husband is earning?
After suffering a near-death experience following childbirth, the author goes in search of "The cure for sleep," apparently a way to feel more alive, deeply attached to each moment, giving and interacting and experiencing - all great goals, but she does this primarily by having an affair. In the end she seems to acknowledge this as a mistake, but she lost me the moment she chose that route. Had a man opted for an affair so that he could once again experience life's joys, all while his wife works so he could be at home with two children, it's doubtful any readers would have assured him: "Poor, poor you! Go do what you need to do."
I also tired of the author's incessant use of italics. There must be at least 10 on each page, as though the reader wouldn't understand urgency without these. If a writer makes the point clearly to begin with, she doesn't need to constantly stress phrase after phrase after phrase.
I'm disappointed that a writer with talent chose to spend so much time immersed in own sorrow. If you enjoy long paths of "poor me," then this may be for you. I just wanted to shake her and say: "There are people starving to death. Figure out an answer to your problems and move on."… (más)