Thursday, April 20th
11:00pm, 2017, Somewhere in the west of Ireland.
*NOTE:
I found my childhood diary from ages 6-9, so now you’re about to read a satirical
‘book review’ on it because hey, why not! ;P
*
Dear Reader,
The
well-known stance of ‘refusing to read a
book because it’s too mainstream now’ has recently become a pivotal part in
the life of the twenty-first century hipster. I, as hipster and reader, have
been desperately trying to avoid Secrets
Book by award-winning author Margaret
Stagger for fear that it will be, well, shit.
But,
this week as I was tidying my bedroom, the book glared at me
from a box of empty notebooks and old diaries, under layers of regret and
millennial dust.
After all these years, it was finally time.
I understand that I am thee
biggest and thee latest wagon
to join this band wagon, but you’ll humour me by leafing through my
thoughts on the novel,
won’t you?
Where to begin…
SPOILERS AHEAD, TREAD WITH CAUTION!
*
Much like Alanis Morisette’s
false depiction of irony in her catchy and iconic song ‘Ironic’, the author
fails to grasp the concept of a ‘secret’, as her novel opens with the
confession of many secrets; none of
which are worthy of being kept as secrets. Immediately I am stumped by a plot
hole - When a protagonist claims to no longer like Barney the dinosaur, how can
I believe them when they’ve plastered their confession with Barney stickers?
While this scrapbook style gives the novel an authentic homemade feel, the
speaker’s repulsion towards dear Barney reeks of denial, and it just does not
strike me as plausible. Although riveting, the speaker’s list of favourite
animals and TV shows that follow fail to suggest secrecy in my eyes. I hope
that the book will be removed from the mystery genre it claims to belong to and
I’d relish to see it moved to another genre of its own; Paperback clickbait, or
the catfish chronicles perhaps?
Speaking of
cats, the novelist’s constant references to a character named ‘Tabby’ are
frustrating in the sense that we are never given any characterization, nor does
the character of Tabby ever move the plot along. Tabby’s character has no
dialogue from start to finish nor does the character pose any significance
other than that the protagonist likes her
and gives her lots of food. As a
nation of readers, I can hear the collective sigh in my mind as many of us
might remember what our English teachers used to tell us when we went to school:
Show, don’t tell.
Who is this Tabby and what
do we know about her? How does she move the plot along? That said, there
doesn’t seem to be a plot to move
along. The author’s links between paragraphs lack consistency. I for one cannot
see the connection between describing the day’s events at a football match in
Dublin and then suddenly declaring that your favourite Disney characters are
Timon and Pumba.
Indeed, the
book reads like a first draft, but every first draft has its darlings.
Stagger’s writing style is charming.
Switching from first to second
person narration carves a unique story in which the reader plays an important part.
Stagger often asks the reader how they
are doing today for fear that she had just been talking about herself far
too much on any given day. Empty spaces hover above printed lines on many of
the book’s pages in order to give the reader a chance to fill in the blanks and
respond to the writer’s questions, like filling out a form but minus the
formalities:
It’s as simple as that and yet with this recurring motif,
Stagger creates a relationship between reader and writer.
-A bold move of course, because not every reader makes a great
character, but, in the same way that Walt Whitman brought free verse to poetry,
Stagger is innovative in her decision to write like this.
She gives an entire body to the faceless reader in order to
create a critically acclaimed novel;
A novel, that
has also caused controversy on social media with its many strengths and
weaknesses.
It is loved for rhyming words that stick to your tongue in
Stagger’s ode to Dr. Seuss; A collection of poems wedged into the middle of the
book, describing a Christmas battle between the adorable mice and some men made
of ice.
And oh dear, it is hated
for the way in which the book skips through time, planting an ‘o’ shape on
the mouth of the reader because the protagonist has suddenly aged a year with
no explanation as to what has happened since the page preceding this one year
leap. Secrets Book follows the
interactive nature of Dora the Explorer,
except Dora has lost her map AND her
marbles.
It’s like a poorly planned pantomime show being performed on
repeat, and yet, there are only so many times you can say ‘It’s behind you’, before the joke gets old and you’re not even
sure if what you’re reading should be considered a novel anymore, for it almost
reads like the inner thoughts of a child.
The paradox of this story’s strong points and weak points
poses the all-important question; would I recommend it?
Pardon my language, but hell
yes, I would.
It entertained me, because trying to figure out what the hell
was going on was an experience in itself.
8/10, would recommend to a friend.*
But wait, that’s not all.
*My favourite part of the book was the ending because, pardon
my French, it was so gloriously shit;
The protagonist ends up playing with a bunch of pigs and
chickens for some reason, in the author’s poor effort to emulate George
Orwell’s Animal Farm. She then
drastically changes the subject on the novel’s final page with promises of a
sequel to hit our shelves in the near future.
Goodness knows, I’ll be the first to buy it!
Ciao 4 now,
Madame Mayreed x
