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ellaminnowpea84 's review for:
The Futures
by Anna Pitoniak
Whenever I dislike a book, my first thought is that it must be just me. I’m missing something, I’m being hypercritical, I’m just not the right audience for the book.
But, honestly, this book was so uninspired that at one point, I started getting actively angry at it. I didn’t want to finish it, and I’m not sure why I did.
It’s about a couple of recent Ivy League grads who have moved to Manhattan just before the 2008 financial crisis (she comes from money, he’s starting at six figures in a prestigious financial firm). Evan is asked to do some shady things for his boss--he’s working a lot of hours and feeling uncertain about the ethics. Julia, somewhat more unmoored in terms of a career path, is starting to wonder if their relationship is meant for the world outside of college.
Career uncertainty, the stress of adult relationships. It should be relatable, but it never rose above bland and predictable. It felt like just going through the motions of a book that I’ve already read a dozen time before, with nothing new or distinct to set it apart. And it sticks so tightly to that mold of “upper class white people literature” that it ultimately lost any appeal as a twentysomething “finding yourself” novel. It’s hard to feel any sympathy for these characters who have so much going for them.
It shouldn’t make me angry to be asked for that sympathy, but I found myself feeling so irritated because a) it’s just shitty timing given what’s going on in the country now and b) because I felt like the broad sketches of the characters’ lives hewed so closely to the broad sketch of the author bio on the back flap that part of me really and truly doubted that Anna Pitoniak has had enough experiences to have written a novel that could genuinely engage me. I mean, you’re supposed to “write what you know,” right? Whenever I see those biographical similarities between author and character, I assume there’s some level of autobiography in the fiction, especially with young writers. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that idea--it’s led to some phenomenal novels with tons of emotional resonance. But when it leads to a formulaic novel that’s not as relatable as it assumes it should be, it’s hard for me to avoid casting aspersions on the privilege or the insularity of the author.
But, honestly, this book was so uninspired that at one point, I started getting actively angry at it. I didn’t want to finish it, and I’m not sure why I did.
It’s about a couple of recent Ivy League grads who have moved to Manhattan just before the 2008 financial crisis (she comes from money, he’s starting at six figures in a prestigious financial firm). Evan is asked to do some shady things for his boss--he’s working a lot of hours and feeling uncertain about the ethics. Julia, somewhat more unmoored in terms of a career path, is starting to wonder if their relationship is meant for the world outside of college.
Career uncertainty, the stress of adult relationships. It should be relatable, but it never rose above bland and predictable. It felt like just going through the motions of a book that I’ve already read a dozen time before, with nothing new or distinct to set it apart. And it sticks so tightly to that mold of “upper class white people literature” that it ultimately lost any appeal as a twentysomething “finding yourself” novel. It’s hard to feel any sympathy for these characters who have so much going for them.
It shouldn’t make me angry to be asked for that sympathy, but I found myself feeling so irritated because a) it’s just shitty timing given what’s going on in the country now and b) because I felt like the broad sketches of the characters’ lives hewed so closely to the broad sketch of the author bio on the back flap that part of me really and truly doubted that Anna Pitoniak has had enough experiences to have written a novel that could genuinely engage me. I mean, you’re supposed to “write what you know,” right? Whenever I see those biographical similarities between author and character, I assume there’s some level of autobiography in the fiction, especially with young writers. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that idea--it’s led to some phenomenal novels with tons of emotional resonance. But when it leads to a formulaic novel that’s not as relatable as it assumes it should be, it’s hard for me to avoid casting aspersions on the privilege or the insularity of the author.