I have a lot of writing to do today, and that task feels difficult and distant and so I going to write you a newsletter and see if that dislodges something. I hope you don’t mind.
This is partially because it’s been a strange and overwhelming couple of weeks On Line for me. I got roasted for DAYS after posting about my shitty 9/11 boyfriend, and then right on its heels I got sucked into a standard San Francisco NIMBY imbroglio after posting from the work account that I think being nice to homeless people is the right thing to do. It got so stupid that even the Chron had to cover it. AND THEN, as soon as that dust settled, we announced we’re moving the store, and that was this morning. So even now as I write this, I have no choice but to keep one eye on the website that is personally for me like one of those psychological “experiments” from the 70s that’s actually just a crime.
I’m still not reading much. I’m also trying not to overanalyze that problem, despite my seething desire to have something to shame myself about. But I’m hoping it will change soon. One, because I have a vaccine appointment on March 30, which is 29 days from now. (It’s also March, fucking March, fucking again! Right now! What the fuck,) And two, because tomorrow I will go and spend three days in a cabin upstate finishing my book draft so that I can start trying to get an agent.
I’m saying the agent part out loud because if I keep saying it out loud it might feel like something normal, something I can do. This was a tactic I used when I started writing a novel, and guess what: I wrote a novel.
It’s also possible that writing a novel is the worst thing that ever happened to my reading habits. But I am bringing the forthcoming Megan Miranda with me, and look forward to reading it without a cat chewing on my ankle because I stopped paying attention to him even for a second.
Anyway. There’s a book rec coming, I swear.
The year was 2017 and I picked up a mystery off of our galley shelf at Booksmith.
This was my standard weekend activity: a stack of ARCs from writers I didn’t already know, usually all mysteries, and I’d read them all in a row, lighting the next one off the butt of the last. Then, I’d order the good ones for the shop and handsell them like whoa.
One of those 2017 books was Sarah Pinborough’s Behind Her Eyes, and when I walked back in for my next shift, I put the galley on my work husband and store buyer’s desk and said “this is the weirdest thing I have ever read and it’s going to be huge.”
And sure enough, last week (or what feels like a week, who knows who cares) the adaptation showed up on Netflix.
I watched it, of course. It’s six long episodes, they are beautiful to look at, and it is extremely faithful to the book in a way I was surprised they were able to pull off. Because guys, the book is BONKERS. Like. Bonkers enough that I can’t even really tell you why it’s so bonkers without getting spoilery, and so I won’t.
But it starts off with a somewhat standard-issue love triangle. A married couple, David and Adele (played by Bono’s daughter Eve Hewson), the magic gone, David fucking Louise, who works in his office. Louise, though, ran into Adele before her thing with David started, and they’d formed a friendship, so Louise is playing both sides. Adele is giving Louise a slow-drip of secrets, and David refuses to talk to Louise about anything, but boy does Louise love fucking David (and boy does the show love letting you watch, eyeballs emoji).
You watch the first two or three episodes and see Louise get sucked in by the power of Adele’s glassy stare and David’s sculpted butt cheeks, falling farther into their fucked up abyss, and you’re like, okay, I get this. I’m safe here in this story about a bad marriage that I definitely understand.
But then it’s like the show’s edible kicks in, and it goes absolutely haywire. Just off the fucking rails. Which is exactly like the book—except that for the show, they had to come up with a physical, visual representation of the astral fucking plane, which they both somehow pull off, and is absolutely hilarious to watch—the medium elevates the book’s already batshit esoterica bits to an even more batshit level. The twist even has a twist on it, like wearing a baseball cap with a fasinator on top, and you won’t be done yelling WHAT, SERIOUSLY WHAT at the teevee until the final credits roll.
(Sidebar: The clues are there. If you choose to read all the spoilery reviews of the show before going in, don’t let them lie to you—the show did a GREAT job at subtly dropping you clues. On this hill I will die.)
Alan watched it too, which I think is saying something, because he usually tunes out during my murdery bullshit. But I kept catching him releasing all the breath he’d been holding in whenever the screen would cut to something peaceful like a field or a park.
But did he like it? I have no idea! Did I like it? Also unclear! Have I stopped thinking about it since I finished it more than 48 hours ago? Absolutely not. Would I watch it again? You fucken bet, because it’s at once both wildly compelling and the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen, which is hard to pull off.
Either way it’s six hours of complete absorption, whether you choose the book or the TV show. Personally, I would do both, but that’s just me.
Here’s where to buy the book. The show is on Netflix.
Listening: I’ve rec’d this pod before, but Underunderstood recently did an episode about Jeff Goldblum’s character’s mysterious tattoo in Jurassic Park and it was my favorite
Playing: I just finished Anodyne 2, which is finally available on Switch, and, lord, those games. If you haven’t, do
Watching: this performance of Rasputin by Boney M, which I recommend viewing every day as soon as you wake up
Reading: yes, I am getting the vaccine because I am fat
Fairy Tale: here’s a story about the least ugly merman
Laughing: you’re welcome