The Good House by Ann Leary

I didn't realize how badly I needed a pleasure read until I dipped into The Good House by Ann Leary. It was released on January 15th, and I had pre-ordered it, so that when I woke up on Wednesday morning, there it was, all ready and waiting.

Its genre is "Women's Fiction."
I find I cringe and shudder at the name of the category, not the book. Sorry, I can't help it. It's a category that is so maligned, a category heading that is so misused, I can't help but protest. It so happens, not necessarily by design, that I don't often read books that suffer from such labeling, I don't have a grudge against a novel that's labeled "women's fiction." Women buy more novels than men. They read many more novels than men. And this has been going on since the 1820s. I don't want to get all political about it, but is there a "men's fiction" genre? No, because most of the fiction men read, women do as well.

Back to The Good House. I'm loving it. I wish it wouldn't come to an end. I have 90 pages to go in this 259-page book, and I'm already in mourning. Perhaps I'm identifying with the 60-year-old protagonist a bit too much. It helps if you can identify with a character who sometimes drinks a little bit too much and the fact that her daughters have hounded her for it. But this is not the primary theme. It's about fulfilling work, finagling relationships with one's children and one's ex, carving out a place for love in the present, and learning, always learning about relationships. I like the coastal North Shore of  Boston setting. Maybe its main appeal for me is I needed a fun read about a woman my age who's still discovering and exploring what's next and not letting others dictate for her what that should be. Aahh! I've finally hit on it! May we all be free to define ourselves as we wish until the day... well, you get the idea. Well-written, excellent pacing, well-plotted. Thank you, Ann Leary!