Local Girls
by Alice Hoffman
Ironically, I read Local Girls immediately after a very similar book, The Adults. They’re both incredibly heavy, realistic, and depressing. If you’re going to read either one of them, space it out between two beach reads to save your sanity.
A dear friend of mine loves Alice Hoffman, so I picked up Local Girls at my favorite used bookstore since the synopsis looked intriguing. Her writing style is so beautiful and unique, I’m not surprised at my friend’s devotion. However, this book was so draining and upsetting, I’m not sure if I’ll be in the mood to read another Hoffman book anytime soon. The book follows one family’s tragic life and every time you think they can’t handle one more sadness, Hoffman hands it to them. I won’t spoil what happens, but as you read the opening dedication, you see that Hoffman donated her profits from the book to breast cancer research, which gives you a clue about one of the sadnesses in the novel.
In case you read my review and think I’m just a lightweight who can’t handle heavy books, let me assure you I’m not. As a reader, I made it through Easter Parade and loved Commonwealth and The Lie. As a writer, I write tragedies far often than happy endings. However, there’s a difference between sad and upsetting, and Local Girls is both. One of the characters develops a drug addiction, and Hoffman writes those passages with eerie realism. One of the characters is convinced she’ll be smart when she finally falls in love, and the reader’s heart breaks as soon as she meets the bad boy of her dreams.
Alice Hoffman’s beautiful writing is poetic and wise, without being pretentious, which to me, is an incredible combination. It’s hopeful, yet ominous, warning readers that although she remembers the innocence of youth, she also remembers the time when innocence is crushed.
“School had been out for exactly one week, and my best friend Jill and I were already bored out of our minds. We were twelve, that unpredictable and dangerous age when sampling shades of lipstick and playing with dolls seem equally interesting. We both had the feeling that this summer was our last chance at something, and not knowing quite what it was, we started testing our boundaries. We talked back to our mothers. We streaked our hair with a caustic mixture of peroxide and ammonia. We spoke to strangers and didn’t pick up after ourselves. By the end of the month we were climbing out our bedroom windows nearly every night.”
A dear friend of mine loves Alice Hoffman, so I picked up Local Girls at my favorite used bookstore since the synopsis looked intriguing. Her writing style is so beautiful and unique, I’m not surprised at my friend’s devotion. However, this book was so draining and upsetting, I’m not sure if I’ll be in the mood to read another Hoffman book anytime soon. The book follows one family’s tragic life and every time you think they can’t handle one more sadness, Hoffman hands it to them. I won’t spoil what happens, but as you read the opening dedication, you see that Hoffman donated her profits from the book to breast cancer research, which gives you a clue about one of the sadnesses in the novel.
In case you read my review and think I’m just a lightweight who can’t handle heavy books, let me assure you I’m not. As a reader, I made it through Easter Parade and loved Commonwealth and The Lie. As a writer, I write tragedies far often than happy endings. However, there’s a difference between sad and upsetting, and Local Girls is both. One of the characters develops a drug addiction, and Hoffman writes those passages with eerie realism. One of the characters is convinced she’ll be smart when she finally falls in love, and the reader’s heart breaks as soon as she meets the bad boy of her dreams.
Alice Hoffman’s beautiful writing is poetic and wise, without being pretentious, which to me, is an incredible combination. It’s hopeful, yet ominous, warning readers that although she remembers the innocence of youth, she also remembers the time when innocence is crushed.
“School had been out for exactly one week, and my best friend Jill and I were already bored out of our minds. We were twelve, that unpredictable and dangerous age when sampling shades of lipstick and playing with dolls seem equally interesting. We both had the feeling that this summer was our last chance at something, and not knowing quite what it was, we started testing our boundaries. We talked back to our mothers. We streaked our hair with a caustic mixture of peroxide and ammonia. We spoke to strangers and didn’t pick up after ourselves. By the end of the month we were climbing out our bedroom windows nearly every night.”