Friday Feature: From the TBR Pile

Liza Palmer’s Conversations with the Fat Girl reminded me why writing is important. I enjoyed this book tremendously, but I hesitate to say I loved it because I’m still a little too raw. The book hit too close to home in some respects, picking a little at some wounds I’d thought long healed.

Despite the fact that the heroine drove me crazy at times, and the mini jumps back and forth in time tripped me up (though I recognize their necessity in the story), Ms. Palmer wove an underlying truth throughout the book that rang honest and clear. She doesn’t hold anything back, as far as I could tell, but she switched between subtlety and brute honesty in a way that took some of the sting out, using humor and metaphor to make the pill easier to swallow.

What I liked best about the book is the main character’s family. They’re supportive, understanding, and loving throughout, which gives Maggie, the MC, no one but herself to blame for her life. So many books tend to take the easier way out, allowing destructive families to explain away why the heroine falls short of her potential. I’m not saying that there isn’t truth to that storyline, but I felt relieved that it wasn’t so in this book. Maggie’s insecurities are her own.

The one real complaint I have about the novel is how Maggie deals with her childhood best friend, Olivia. Though I understand Ms. Palmer’s decision, I wish Maggie could have taken a slightly higher road on her way to redemption.

But the best part? It’s on page 199, where Maggie and her mother have their first session with a personal trainer, Gabriel.

“Go ahead and give me seven more, Maggie. Gooood, and three, two, and ten more.” I almost drop the bar. Gabriel’s voice is melodic, like an X-ray technician or a doctor as he says, “Relax, this wont hurt a bit.”

“Wait. You said seven more and then you went all the way back up to ten,” I say, raising and lowering the bar.

“You didn’t look tired,” Gabriel says while he leans on the bar itself. The weight I have to lift has now doubled.

“Wait–what? Well, now you’re just leaning on it!” I am horrified.

“Okay, good. Now give me three more.” Now I know that Gabriel is a big, fat leaning-on-the-bar liar. As far as I know, I could be here all night. I do seven more and he finally hooks the bar back into the notch on the equipment.

Mom is next. She does approximately five total. The whole time she looks like she’s in complete pain. Gabriel doesn’t lean on the bar at all and even passes my mother her perfect little water bottle when she’s done. As she’s getting up from the bench, my mother winks at me. The bitch. It’s on.

Oh, so very true and worthy of a warning: Do not drink coffee while reading this book or you make choke while laughing. All in all, I highly recommend it, and it’s taking a place on that special shelf, the one reserved for the meaningful books that take a few years to fully accept.