4 Stars
“This your story too?”
“Not really, but I’d like to know how it ends.”
Those of you who know me know that I have a serious and debilitating case of old lady brain . . . .
So the fact that I remembered Ivy Pochoda’s name after first reading one of her books nearly FOUR YEARS AGO is basically a miracle from the Baby Jeebus. However, in case any of you are now concerned that this is a marker of the end of days, have no fear. I am, after all, the braintrust who compared Pochoda’s writing to that of Dennis Lehane in Visitation Street without bothering to pay any attention at all to it being HE who published that book in the first place . . . .
Wonder Valley is different from Visitation Street as there is no real “mystery” to be solved (unless the reader categorizes genres so loosely that uncovering who the naked runner on the 110 freeway at the very start of the book is enough to qualify as one). Rather this is the narrative of Britt and Ren and Blake and James and Tony which takes place in both 2006 and 2010 as their lives intertwine (or intertwine again, as the case may be). The setting is both at a “religious cult” (the term used as loosely as possible) in the before as well as Skid Row in the now and if you haven’t experienced Ivy Pochoda’s writing before, it goes a little something like this . . . .
Believe me when I say before I began I was a little terrified my expectations were set too high so I had to repeat the following mantra in my head . . . .
I’m happy to report my second go ‘round with this author was not a failure. Now, I can’t say this will work for others the way it did for me, but boy oh boy did it work for me. I will admit that in addition to Pochoda’s ability to paint a scene without ever becoming purple or too verbose, partial credit also has to go to my complete and utter fascination (and simultaneous horror) with Skid Row. In case you aren’t familiar, here is a tiny glimpse of what it looks like . . . .
An ever-growing community within downtown Los Angeles of homeless people that consist of not only the mentally ill, drug addicted and criminal elements, but thanks to rising housing prices and not-rising wages, Average Joes who simply can’t afford their rent. Pochoda did a magnificent job of putting the reader in the middle of the tent city. So much so, in fact, that when reading while riding the elevator to the parking garage from the high heights of the floor I work on I was completely transplanted and sort of had to “shake myself out of it” when the elevator landed back on terra firma.
4 Stars rather than 5 because I wasn’t as invested in Twentynine Palms – mainly because I wanted more information. Still, a completely enrapturing tale for me with an ever-so-simple message . . . .
“We all make mistakes. It doesn’t mean we should be denied a few graces.”
Pochoda writes . . . .
“If you stick around long enough, you’ll learn quick that your story is the only thing you have that belongs to you proper.”
I’m so happy that I have discovered hers. Now . . . .
When I show up at your front door requesting you please write something new real quick for me in fear that my C.R.S. Disorder will rear its ugly head before your next book is released.
“This your story too?”
“Not really, but I’d like to know how it ends.”
Those of you who know me know that I have a serious and debilitating case of old lady brain . . . .
So the fact that I remembered Ivy Pochoda’s name after first reading one of her books nearly FOUR YEARS AGO is basically a miracle from the Baby Jeebus. However, in case any of you are now concerned that this is a marker of the end of days, have no fear. I am, after all, the braintrust who compared Pochoda’s writing to that of Dennis Lehane in Visitation Street without bothering to pay any attention at all to it being HE who published that book in the first place . . . .
Wonder Valley is different from Visitation Street as there is no real “mystery” to be solved (unless the reader categorizes genres so loosely that uncovering who the naked runner on the 110 freeway at the very start of the book is enough to qualify as one). Rather this is the narrative of Britt and Ren and Blake and James and Tony which takes place in both 2006 and 2010 as their lives intertwine (or intertwine again, as the case may be). The setting is both at a “religious cult” (the term used as loosely as possible) in the before as well as Skid Row in the now and if you haven’t experienced Ivy Pochoda’s writing before, it goes a little something like this . . . .
Believe me when I say before I began I was a little terrified my expectations were set too high so I had to repeat the following mantra in my head . . . .
I’m happy to report my second go ‘round with this author was not a failure. Now, I can’t say this will work for others the way it did for me, but boy oh boy did it work for me. I will admit that in addition to Pochoda’s ability to paint a scene without ever becoming purple or too verbose, partial credit also has to go to my complete and utter fascination (and simultaneous horror) with Skid Row. In case you aren’t familiar, here is a tiny glimpse of what it looks like . . . .
An ever-growing community within downtown Los Angeles of homeless people that consist of not only the mentally ill, drug addicted and criminal elements, but thanks to rising housing prices and not-rising wages, Average Joes who simply can’t afford their rent. Pochoda did a magnificent job of putting the reader in the middle of the tent city. So much so, in fact, that when reading while riding the elevator to the parking garage from the high heights of the floor I work on I was completely transplanted and sort of had to “shake myself out of it” when the elevator landed back on terra firma.
4 Stars rather than 5 because I wasn’t as invested in Twentynine Palms – mainly because I wanted more information. Still, a completely enrapturing tale for me with an ever-so-simple message . . . .
“We all make mistakes. It doesn’t mean we should be denied a few graces.”
Pochoda writes . . . .
“If you stick around long enough, you’ll learn quick that your story is the only thing you have that belongs to you proper.”
I’m so happy that I have discovered hers. Now . . . .
When I show up at your front door requesting you please write something new real quick for me in fear that my C.R.S. Disorder will rear its ugly head before your next book is released.
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