More Than It Hurts You

I stopped reading edgy, dark books and watching serious, arty films when I started teaching in the ghetto. This was at the same time I was divorcing my pseudo-intellectual now-ex-husband, a man whose idea of a fun movie was Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. So there was probably a bit of rebellion against him, as well as needing fun to recover from my challenging and depressing work days, that contributed to my new obsession with mainstream mysteries and broad comedies.

After becoming a mother, my horizons didn’t really expand. Once in a while I would read a book (Middlesex) or see a movie (Crash) that was serious and dark, but the exceptions to my “fun and happy” rule were always, well, exceptional. (For some strange reason this dictum has not applied to my TV viewing, I’m still mourning the loss of the Sopranos).

So when I received my copy of More Than It Hurts You by Darin Strauss, I did not start reading it immediately. In fact, I put it off. The book tells the story of a family and a doctor caught up in  a case of Munchausen by proxy (the disease where a parent, usually a mother, makes a child sick to get attention). Not exactly beach reading.

Finally I settled down with the book. I was prepared to appreciate its beauty, even if I didn’t like the topic. I was prepared to find it insightful. I was not prepared to feel the exact same way that I do when watching Rock of Love. But as I read, I had the same litany that runs through my head while watching the alleged reality show: No one acts like that, that makes no sense even for a crazy person and I don’t believe any of you are real.

The story and the plotting make More Than It Hurts You compelling, but the characters left me flat. I didn’t believe any of them, nor did I like any of them. I was curious to see how the story turned out, but I didn’t care. I felt like the author told us everything about them, but hardly showed any of it. In some books, especially genre books, this works. It doesn’t work in serious literary fiction.

I feel horrible saying that. Until this review, I had a secret dream of somehow getting myself hired to be a reviewer (of books, movies, restaurants, TV shows, hotels, whatever). But I feel awful that I didn’t appreciate this book. Clearly, I am not cut out to be a professional reviewer. Maybe I missed something in this one, I don’t know. I’m going to head over to MotherTalk and see what everyone else thought about the book.