Have you read a book and then debated with yourself for months about whether you liked it or not? That’s been me with Big Little Lies. I’ve been such a mess over Australian author Liane Moriarty’s bestselling women’s fiction title that I haven’t been able to even properly articulate what was getting on my nerves for so long.
In fact, I still don’t know if I can. But let’s try, shall we?
First of all, I’ll start by admitting that I’m pretty stingy with both my monthly Audible credit (even with their guaranteed return policy, which I’ve used often) and with my time. And women’s fiction hasn’t generally been a genre that has treated me well in the past. There, I said it.
While there have been a few books here and there that were really refreshing and fun (I’m thinking What Would Mary Berry Do? ), my expectations have much more often been crushed, leaving me feeling as though I’d wasted precious time.
So when I settled on reading/listening to Big Little Lies, it wasn’t just out of a desire for a good story, but from knowing that I’d be able to partake in so many conversations exploding around what was then about to be made into an HBO mini-series starring blockbuster Hollywood names like Reese Witherspoon (who actually acted in and also produced the series) and Julia Roberts.
And for much of the story, fourteen hours narrated by a pleasant-voiced woman with a mild Australian accent, I wasn’t unimpressed. I found the portrayal of a domestic abuser to be eerily accurate, and this was to my eyes
(ears?) a big artistic/literary accomplishment. I mean, even after what I say next, by all means, read this novel just to get a great bird’s-eye view of the cycle of domestic violence, to get one too-common perspective on the question of why women don’t leave, and to see how horrid and even more disgusting it is than you may have previously imagined.
But then the story progressed and something happened to ruin it all… This book that I’d felt had really done a great deal to recover the broken image of chick-lit (okay, we call it women’s fiction now) as a bunch of sexist drivel was portraying women as spectacularly irrational, comically irrational.
Upon the death of one of the characters, an accidental murder of sorts as it were, rather than honestly fess up to authorities, the women chose to huddle together in what can only be described as a show of primitive tribal loyalty (to the woman tribe!) and to lie to investigators and police in order to protect one of their own. How heartwarming.
Amidst this, the only voices of doubt or reason were men’s—who it turns out stood no chance against the potential wrath of their wives, whose allegiance didn’t lie with democratic and civilized values but with their vagina tribe. (So those men were easily shushed.)
You should seriously read this book and tell me what you think. I want to know! I can’t be the only person who noticed this glaring issue.
Fourteen hours of listening is, what, two weeks worth of cardio time? Do it!
Pick up the Audible audiobook here (you get a free trial membership that you can cancel immediately after picking up the book…)