Alice Bolin

This was a tough one to get through. I was so intrigued by the premise of the book but shortly after beginning, I felt I had been misled. Instead of essays about popular culture and recurring themes of Dead Girls, I feel like I read a sporadically put together hodgepodge of a memoir pulled from the pages of the author’s diary. Bolin is a good writer, but the supposed basic premise of this book is utterly lost in a mostly narcissistic listing of her perceived talents and abilities, sprinkled liberally with the idea that anyone who disagrees with her about anything is wrong and possibly not a good person. Oh, and by the way, she’s sad most of the time. That’s my basic take away from this book.

The essays themselves tried to cover too many ideas at the same time, making each one a bit of a jumble that I caught myself having to go back and re-read because I just gave up and skipped half a page out of sheer irritation. Heavy sighs became the soundtrack to my time spent reading, and it was only my fervent (albeit misplaced) hope that it would get better that kept me reading.

Also, according to these essays, I’m a bad person because I thoroughly enjoy a Dead Girl book, the darker and more twisty the better, so there’s that.… (mere)

I picked up this book thinking it’ll be a feminist analysis of a “dead girl” trope so much of the media we consume utilizes, and it is that, but also so much more.

Bolin’s voice is clear and meditative, her essays calm and deeply incisive, almost philosophical. It somehow combines Los Angeles, reality TV, turning into a werewolf as a metaphor for female puberty, witches, white feminism and conceptual art.

Since I’m not American, some of the details Bolin was referencing went completely over my head, but this was in no way detrimental to my enjoyment.… (mere)