My Name is Lucy Barton

It's always a little rough when the best thing I can think to say about a book is that it was short.

I hear a lot about Elizabeth Strout, and she's got a bunch of award-winning books. But it seems like every time I hear about someone raving about one of her books, it's the third or fourth in a series. Most recently, this happened with Oh, William. My book club nearly decided to read it. My mother-in-law's book club did decide to read it. And she liked it enough to go back and read the first two books. She waxed rhapsodic about this story that changes as the protagonist matures and gains new perspective on her childhood and comes to understand that trauma.

And that may all be true. But the first book is (obviously) at the very beginning of that journey, and I had a hard time connecting with it. It was very melancholy, which I found off-putting. It felt like there was a wall between me and Lucy Barton. Every time she approached something interesting, she shied away from it, leaving me frustrated and unsatisfied.

And I get that that's the point. This is a woman just beginning to grapple with her trauma. She's not quite prepared to look it in the eye yet.

Like I said, it was at least short. I may pick up the other two books (especially if they arrive on my kindle like this one did). But for now I fail to understand the hype.