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Omg �� yes! Clearly, I need Miranda July in my life more than once a year. She makes me laugh and�� well, maybe not cry, but think! And cringe. Definitely cringe at times. She shies away from absolutely nothing! Sometimes I find this annoying, this no holds barred approach to writing. Just as in real life, a person that refuses to hold back a single damn thing can get on my nerves. It feels too forced. But with July, there’s a purpose. She’s not going to show you part of her character. You are going to see the genuine person - the good, the bad and the ugly (and it does get “ugly�� here at times!). She is refreshingly honest, and I’d say that’s the appeal to me as a reader.

“The only dangerous lie was one that asked me to compress myself down into a single convenient entity that one person could understand. I was a kaleidoscope, each glittering piece of glass changing as I turned.��

When the narrator, a forty-five-year-old artist, embarks on a cross-country drive, she ends up not at the end of her intended excursion to New York City, but at a dumpy motel only thirty minutes away from home. And there begins an entirely different sort of journey of a mid-life wife and mother of a young son. Don’t expect the same old story of a conforming, middle-aged woman breaking free, however. The narrator is anything but your typical housewife to begin with, so this ride gets wild and bumpy and raunchy! And poignant and meaningful. Do not lose focus or you will miss out entirely on the significance, the essence of the whole thing.

“If I lived to be ninety I was halfway through. Or if you thought of it as two lives, then I was at the very start of my second life. I imagined a vision quest-style journey involving a cave, a cliff, a crystal, maybe a labyrinth and a golden ring.��

“Everyone thinks they’re so securely bound into their lives. Really I had done almost nothing to end up here. I had walked the wrong way around the block and then gone the wrong direction on the freeway.��

What I loved most about this was that the narrator really had no clue, no plan as to what she was going to do next. She was entirely spontaneous, figuring out herself and her desires and her needs as she went along. Ideas shifted, circumstances changed, and she wound up in a variety of situations as she evolved into this new person. Well, “new�� person isn’t really the right word. She figured out what she wanted next out of life, given the person she had been all along really. Have you ever made a list or a plan and then botched it up completely? Of course you have! Went off the rails and done something else entirely different? Or maybe not off the rails, but had to regroup and change direction a bit? The narrator is so damn funny �� so relatable at times that I had to laugh and nod my head.

“I spent the rest of the afternoon planning the rest of my life. I made lists of the different areas and how I could throw myself into them. They included Family and Marriage and Work but also Service. I had not been of enough service in my life. I could see getting deeply involved in all sorts of helping�� Also the rest of my life would be a slog and then I would die. Which is the case for many people. It’s no big deal.��

This woman isn’t really about to give in though. She has grit and determination and the admiration of this reader! Even if you can’t fully relate to her actions, someone going through a time of life transitions should surely be able to empathize with her feelings. Perhaps her sexual adventures aren’t to your liking, but if you try to look beyond that at the bigger picture, then you will gulp this novel down in one big, appetizing bite too! Make sure to read the Acknowledgements section if you make it through to the end. July conducted a series of interviews with women in midlife and garnered a range of physical and emotional changes that went along with it. Oh, and several doctors as well. Bonus points for doing the extra legwork! She’s truly brilliant. I might have loved this even more than The First Bad Man, and that's saying a lot!

“Maybe it all began now, my life as a wife comfortable in her own home, a real wife. I tried to remember how Pinocchio had become a real boy. It had something to do with being in a whale, maybe saving his father’s life; I hadn’t done anything like that. But surely a woman was more complex than a puppet boy and she might become herself not once-and-for-all but cyclically: waxing, waning, sometimes disappearing altogether.��