2015 NBA - The Other Five

In which I discuss the five books on the National Book Award longlist…

Hi, Y’all! Glad You’re Here—

Over the years, I’ve often praised the 2015 National Book Award Fiction shortlist, sometimes even declaring it my favorite shortlist of the last decade, as it featured such stellar books as Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff, A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara, and The Turner House by Angela Flourney. The thing is, before this past week, I’d actually never read the entire longlist. I wrote about the five books on the short list at the beginning of this newsletter—you can find that here—and I read Mislaid by Nell Zink a few years ago, but the rest of the books sat on my shelves, untouched, for as long as they’d been out in the world. I decided to finally take a look at the second half of this NBA longlist and consider if these books hold up to the shortlisted books, and also think about what the list as a whole says about the state of literature of that moment.

We’ll start with the one I read a while back, Mislaid by Nell Zink. This snarky, subversive, sometimes problematic work follows a teenage lesbian who sleeps with a gay man, producing a child—after some conflict, the mom and daughter run off and pull a Rachel Dolazol, adopting new names and pretending to be black. The rest, as they say, is social commentary. It’s interesting to consider this book in the before and after of the 2016 election. For nearly eight years, most white people spoke of the U.S. as post-racial, specifically linking Obama’s presidency as the example. It makes sense that Mislaid would've been released around this time, because it is a book told through that very specific lens, operating under the delusional idea that we live in a “post-race” society, and so, adopting blackness—for these white characters—could only benefit them, that they wouldn’t have any negative impact due to systemic issues. It’s a bizarre take that feels inherently born out of an inherently privileged and unaffected mindset.

If you’re a fan of quirky books—especially the likes of Elizabeth McKenzie, Jen Beagin, and even Ottessa Moshfegh—I think you'd enjoy a lot about this book. I’m not too sure that the quirkiness serves any purpose here aside from distinguishing Zink from other writers tackling similar subject matter, but it’s enjoyable on the page. Still, at times it feels like a safeguard, a way of being cutsie enough to rebuff certain criticisms of the work, saying, “I don’t take this too seriously, so neither should you.” I do think Zink is a stellar writer in many respects, that she knows how to spin a great plot, create a propulsive, page turning narrative, and that she creates imagery that lodges itself into your brain to the point you can’t shake it. But her lack of deeper exploration left me wanting here. She writes about these white characters and their perception of blackness, but she never really critiques them in any way, and it feels like she doesn’t have a legitimate understanding of race beyond a certain point. I don’t find the book to be harmful, necessarily, or unreadable. I don’t think it’s a book we should write off. But I feel that maybe there’s more discussion about what was left unexplored in this book than by what is actually on the page.

What makes Mislaid such an interesting book on the longlist, is how it relates to the next book we’re discussing, Welcome to Braggsville. The novel, by T. Geronimo Johnson, is in many ways reminiscent of previous NBA winner Invisible Man. In the way that Ralph Ellison wanted to write about the complex, complicated, nuanced experience of being black in America, I think Johnsons book takes it a step further, really exploring the complicated dynamics of all people of color in America. Like Mislaid, Welcome to Braggsville is a satire, but where the former felt avoidant in much of its social commentary, the latter takes many big swings. The novel follows a group of college students who, upon finding out that their southernmost member hails from a town that does Civil War reenactments, decide to go there and stage a mock lynching as protest. Johnson feels so tuned in to the experiences of all of his characters, and isn’t afraid of doing things that make them look less than perfect.

I’m not sure if either of these first two books would be as well received by a lot of readers today, but when it comes to Welcome to Braggsville, I think part of this is because he doesn’t handhold the reader, doesn’t explain that he, as the author, is fully aware that his characters are saying and doing questionable things. But that’s exactly why the book works on so many levels. Yes, there are clearly moments where we’ve moved beyond certain conversation points, but I think so much of this book still speaks to our current situation in how people just seem to think they’re allowed a certain level of permission to cross certain lines. I’m speaking vaguely for anyone who hasn’t read it, but I think it’s an engaging, well written, funny and smart read, and definitely worth your time.

The third book on the list was Did You Ever Have A Family by Bill Clegg, a book about confronting the terrible realities we’re faced with, and finding a way to move forward. So much of this book, like Johnson’s, has a certain awareness to the actual diversity of experience and how identity, class, etc. shapes how each person can experience a collective trauma so differently. When a woman’s entire family dies, we see the different viewpoints from all of these different characters, and they each feel so well developed and help us learn a new aspect of the story. It’s one of the more cinematic stories in how everything plays out in scene—it’s in some ways reminiscent of Imagine Me Gone, which would be longlisted the following year—and I think in a year where so many of the books were pulling from more traditional literary styles, it makes this one stand out, stylistically.

Bill Clegg is actually Lauren Groff’s literary agent, and I did think it was funny that both of their books made the NBA longlist this year. Not super related, just a fun fact.

The fourth book on the longlist, A Cure for Suicide by Jesse Ball, is interesting in how it situates itself in this longlist, because it’s the book with the most unique structures, almost reading like a longford poem at times, and it’s also the one that seems least interested in certain elements of social commentary that feel present in all of the other books. That’s not to say that this book doesn’t have any social commentary, but just that the focus is different. It’s less on identity and more on a more overarching human experience, maybe? In some ways, this book reminded me of Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind—part of the story here is that depression and heartache have been all but eradicated by amnesiac treatments. I found it fascinating and appreciated the way the story unfolded. I do think this book will be frustrating to many readers because of the spare prose, the questionable characters, and the total lack of handholding throughout the narrative. But I also know many people who will love this book if they haven’t already. It’s one I’m still wrapping my head around, and excited to discuss with others.

The last book on the longlist is Honeydew by Edith Pearlman. I started this collection with a bit of trepidation, because I hadn’t really seen much conversation around this one, I saw very lofty comparisons to short story writers I love, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to hold up. But boy was I wrong. Pearlman is a genius, her stories unfold in such exciting ways, such a great economy of language, and there’s something so perfect in how she creates such intrigue around mundanity. I found her work so compelling and wanted to live inside every story in this collection. If you haven’t read her, she’s truly a must.

I’m still processing my thoughts on all of these books upon finishing—I don’t know if I loved the longlist as much as the short list, but I do think this was a really fun year, full of some exciting reads. I appreciate how each book is wrestling with its ideas, even when they don’t always work. That’s part of what, to me, creates exciting works of literature. And I think part of the struggle was due to the recognition that the world we were all pretending to live in was so close to cracking open and revealing the darker world underneath.

I’m hoping to write more about the ten books altogether once I’ve had more time to think on them, but I’m glad I finally finished this longlist, and can’t wait to move on to the next list!

Thanks for reading! Until next time,

XOXO