I think we’re far enough away from 1951’s Levittown to assume that most American readers – and most American writers – grew up in some form of suburb. I mean, the idea was so appealing to young, housing-starved, post-war families that by 1960, a mere 9 years later, half the country was living in bedroom communities.
I was one of them. Our modest, brand spanking new ranch rambler with garbage disposal, picture window and aqua kitchen preceded the roads in our development. Tumbleweeds blew across the yet-to-be-sodded lawn and the nearest grocery store was a suburb away. It was a lot like Little House on the Prairie with wall-to-wall carpeting. Bit by bit, the place filled up. They paved the roads, other families moved in, bridge clubs formed and the book mobile was replaced by a branch library. Osseo District #279 built one, and sometimes two, new schools a year to make room for all of us.
Looking back, I see that watching a suburb grow into its first set of trees was a unique experience, as distinct as Conrad Richter’s The Awakening Land trilogy. I loved Richter’s books, as I loved all pioneer historicals at that time in my life. Yet I never loved my own experience. Never wanted to write about it, never regarded it with that piercing throb I felt reading Winesburg, Ohio or Raintree County, Indiana.
Apparently, I’m not alone in this. While my suburb-raised peers agree that half-built houses were great to play in, and concur that there was something sweetly naïve in taking the new schools, new desks, new textbooks and supply closets bursting with colored paper a our birthright, we also agree that there was something disturbingly forgettable about it all. None of us raised in the suburbs much care to write about them. Books are set in wild and exotic locations, in quaint small towns that have not existed for the last half-century, or in chic communities recognizable only to those who already live in Carmel or Cape Cod.
The truth is, it’s hard to write about the suburbs. Setting is one of the rabbits in the hat. Some readers – and I am one of them – will stick with a book for the setting alone. The suburbs are not a particularly alluring locale. There’s no point in describing them because we all know them already, and whether your character lives in the three-bedroom or the four-bedroom floor plan is of little interest to anyone. Try to make the burbs a smidge more eccentric or interesting and you undermine your book’s credibility. As a plot device, suburbs usually only figure as a shorthand way of mocking the characters who live there, as in the movie Fargo.
The other drawback to a suburban setting is fiction itself. Fiction needs friction, and there is – by popular demand – very little friction in suburbia. You know your neighbor’s house like your own, because chances are it’s the same model; everyone makes a similar amount of money; everyone is either 4, 14, or 40; and as for illicit affairs – well, read David Sedaris’s hilarious short piece, “Next of Kin.”
I have long admired any writer who takes on the suburbs. Which brings us, in a very long and round about way, to Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies. I’ve read Moriarty before and enjoyed her books, especially the first I read, The Last Anniversary. That one is a tribute to the power of setting and detail, taking place on an Australian island called Scribbly Gum, with just the right whiff of mystery and a lot of mentions of marble cake, which I was soon craving.
The backdrop for Big Little Lies is an upscale Sydney suburb. We know from the start that a parent has died at a parents’ night fund-raiser, presumably by foul play, but we don’t know who or why. And for many pages, I did not much care. The thought of reading 400 pages to resolve the whodunnit made me wonder if I would bail out early. The answer to that is no. Moriarty is pleasant company, and knows how to keep you engaged.
The children in the book are largely sympathetic. The adults, at least at first meeting, fulfill the stereotypes I exceptes to find – self-obsessed, insulated, cliquish, vapid, competing over trivialities – such are my prejudices.
Moriarty’s talent is that from this seeming block of wood she is able to carve, bit by bit, three dimensional characters. It took me a while to sort them all out and get their various allegiances straight in my mind, but once I did, I enjoyed the book completely. I also felt a bit guilty for presuming “real” characters would not exist in such a setting, for Moriarty reminds us that they do – just as “real” people live in suburbs. Her book is entertaining, sharp in its observations, and satisfying to the last page.
Jury of One: Would I read this book again? Of course.