The Perfect Meal for Trodelvy-ites

 You've got to see it to believe it: 

Yes, that's cold (refrigerated, leftover) sticky rice piled high with Kimchi. Yes, these kinds:

The one on the left is "mild"--meaning very sour but not the kind setting your mouth on fire. The one on the right with the the lid that makes it look like Bonne Maman jam is full of fire--when I popped the lid, I could see the fermentation bubbling. This kind of kimchi is special; as a Korean friend said, "it hurts going in and it hurts coming out." This is true; you feel that peppery burn at both ends of the alimentary canal.

Why is this meal so delicious? Why am I heading back into the kitchen right now, breaking off typing for just one more spoonful of the stuff on the left? "Ha, ha, like a pregant woman!" I said. And a nurse said. And my friends said. Which got me wondering, naturally, what on earth a 66-year-old postmenopausal woman has in common with a pregnant one. You'd think nothing. The whole business of my treatment has been to block estrogen, the hormone feeding the cancer. A pregnant woman's estrogen levels rise sharply in early pregancy. Which is, believe me, not the state I'm in. 

But maybe estrogen, or a need for estrogen, has something to do with my current cravings--and wow, are those cravings strong. I walk into my apartment and can smell the kimchi even before I open the refrigerator. Those jars are tightly screwed shut. "What a lovely aroma!" I pause to inhale, knowing most people would wonder "What's that awful stink?" It's the delicious fermenting heavily garlicked peppery spice of kimchi, elixer of the gods!

Without yesterday's dose of Trodelvy, however, I doubt I'd feel this way. I liked kimchi before, but in small doses, and I didn't eat it all the time. Now I'm gobbling it. Exhilerating. 

I listened to a podcast suggesting a beneficial effect of light doses of estrogen in breast cancer. Listening to this while dozing, I woke right up. It turned out the guy who invented Tamoxifen discovered that when the drug failed, light doses of estrogen helped push back the cancer. Can this be?

Sounds like a hair of the dog that bit you. But maybe. Maybe. 

Days of Trodelvy and Hair Loss

It's been great having hair, even if it looks like a toilet brush. But I'll be Yul-Brynnerish sometime in the next twelve days. So long, eyebrows! Been good to know you. Bye-bye eyelashes. Hello, looks-like-I-chugged five Schnapps look (the cortisone to combat nausea). Hello snoring (the anti-allergenic). 

"Trodelvy"--they all have such evocative names, these cancer drugs. I think of trolls digging and delving somewhere underground, Grieg's Hall of the Mountain Kings playing in the background. 

I'm not far off with "dig and delve" either. My doctor is digging deep for the right drug and everybody's delving for another rabbit to whip out of a hat. But remember that children's rhyme:

One, two, buckle my shoe,

Three, four, shut the door

Five, six, pick up sticks

Seven, eight, lay them straight

Nine, ten, a big fat hen

Eleven, twelve, dig and delve . . . .

The rhyme goes on, but by the time you're on your eleventh or twelfth line of treatment, they're starting the real dig-and-delve. 

The Trodelvy experience, so far, hasn't been anywhere near as bad as Avastin, Paclitaxel, Epirubicin, Cyclophosphamide, or the capacetabine or the Letrozole or the Ibrance and the Faslodex or the Everolimus/Exemestane combo. Or the Enhertu, which my lawyer twisted my insurance company's arm to get. Thank you, wonderful lawyer! If only the stuff had worked.

The Trodelvy doesn't make me feel that bad, actually. Maybe I'll even go to the gym. If it works, yay! If it doesn't, I'm up the proverbial creek without the fabled paddle. 

First Cold After Covid

I never had it and my rapid test says I don't have it now. But I do have something. I woke up with a stuffy nose, a scratchy throat and the kind of malaise that makes you want to pull the covers over your head and wake up two days later. Hoping to stave off the incipient cold, I had a glass of red wine and a bowl of chicken-flavored ramen noodles when I woke up with the feeling, around two a.m., that I was coming down with something. Both soothed my throat, but the only real cure is time . . . the cups of fruit tea with honey, lemon and ginger I will drink, the mugs of scalding hot water with salt I will gargle, will make me feel I'm battling my enemy. That feeling of being virtuous will decrease the dullness of recovery. It was so hot and humid on the trains returning from Slovenia, which has terrific museums in Llubjana, the gorgeous Julian Alps and the dreamy Adriatic sea, that I didn't wear a mask, but I'm taking up mask-wearing again. Can't hurt.

Favorite Three-Second Protein Salad

Colorful, too:

Assemble: two packs of cocktail shrimp, one ripe avocado, one big lemon, a handful of washed spinach, a dash or two of olive oil, salt and pepper.

Cut the avocado, scoop out by the teaspoon. Open the two packs of shrimp. (This took an extra second, since I got olive oil on my hands). Add shrimp; add spinach. Swirl in a little olive oil. Cut and squeeze the lemon; add salt and pepper. Toss.

Serve with a glass of chilled white wine

Sinéad O' Connor: Requiescat in Pace

It'll be seven hours and fifteen days (at least) before I can think about the apparent suicide of Sinéad O' Connor without a certain resentment. How could she? How could she do that to herself? To her children? After they'd all already lost her son, Shane? The beautiful voice. The guts to rip up a photo of the pope onstage.

I wish she hadn't deprived us all of her company. The despair was all too obvious, but her personality was so large no one succeeded in containing the destructive parts. "Loneliness is a crowded room," is a saying she says she understood after becoming famous. In her 2020 interview with Tommy Tiernan she admitted to having been "very lonesome" and "seriously in danger of dying" and to trying anything, in public, to stay alive. She mentioned a poem a woman wrote about blending into the plaster in her family home. Tiernan brought up "acute pain"and she confessed to this too, and to having agoraphobia. She didn't "nurture friendships," she said, and then most people didn't "like me," and she didn't trust people: "I'm not really good at making friends."  

She described herself as a Muslim, saying: "Muslims believe nothing in this world should be worshipped but God, and that's how I feel." 

The picture of the pope she ripped up on Saturday Night Live came from the wall of her mother's room. I can see how ripping up what her mean mother worshipped--or affected to worship--could be deeply satisfying; "fight the real enemy" she said,

And yes: a bunch of men and women sworn to celibacy and granted authority are not all bad, but they aren't on a good path. O'Connor dared to say so to a religious American audience in 1992, to make people aware of child abuse a good ten years before most media outlets paid attention to the Magdalen laundries, the dead babies, the abuse of effeminate boys and rebellious girls. Holding that pope responsible was one brave move.

New Substack on Banned Children's Books

Dear Readers, 

The Critical Mom will continue to provide "every thought I ever had" on current events, personal experiences, and favorite recipes. I've also launched a new substack, The Beautiful and the Banned, on favorite but "challenged" children's books. The ones I loved in kindergarten, the ones I read my children, the ones most people--not me--think endorse "colonialism" or "racism," terms whose definition has been stretched beyond recognizability, to the point where they're practically meaningless. For example, the artist, academic and civil rights leader Julius Lester, in his afterword to Sam and the Tigers, his charming version of Helen Bannerman's classic, Little Black Sambo, wrote, "many whites had loved Little Black Sambo as children, and were afraid their love of it made them racists now." Of course it didn't (writes this admirer of one of the best children's books of all time.) Each new post of my substack will explore why some poor falsely accused book should never have been challenged.  When I read, "many teachers have removed the book from their classrooms," as I did of Claire Huchet Bishop's fabulous The Five Chinese Brothers, then I'll be urging you to put it back on yours. Enjoy The Beautiful and the Banned and consider becoming a paid subscriber.

 

Post-Chemo Exercise: When You Get Comments

The last post commented on friendly comments you get after chemo. Here's one on the honest observations. The kind only a child could make. Or an oddball.

During chemo, exercise consisted in a short walk to the grocery store, after which I fell asleep on the sofa. On bad days, I walked the length of my room before thinking "time for a nap."

When chemo ended, my energy returned. After four months of relative sloth, I was back at the gym on the cross trainer. 

"You've changed your hair!" said an old guy I hadn't seen since before chemo. His face, a mask of horror, made me smile; I'm tired of people saying, "Oh, a new haircut!" or "your hair looks so punk!" 

As if my steel-wool locks could possibly be intentional. 

The next time I went to the gym, I'd just done my ten minutes on the cross-trainer when the old dude turned up again, looking me up in down. 

"You know, I have to tell you something!" he said. "You've gained some weight!"

I didn't mention the common misconception that breast cancer patients waste away. Our waistlines expand. Maybe it's the lack of activity and the comfort food. Maybe it's the estrogen blockers and the consequent slowed metabolism. Maybe anything. Most of us gain at least two kilos.

"I've been sick," I said. Why didn't I just ignore him? No idea. He startled me. I hate gaining weight. I'm female. 

"Did you change your diet or something?" Continued look of horror. "You used to be so skinny!"

"Uh, no. I guess I did gain around four kilos. I've been sick."

"Oh, but you look good!" said he. With the same expression.

"I will," I said to myself, "after a few months of the gym and no more Prosecco with dinner."

"That guy's been watching you a long time!" said my oldest friend. And we laughed.

The Brillo Queen Look: How to Handle Comments on Your Cancer Hair

First the tips, then the explanation.

(1) Laugh. At least to yourself. Not at the person who was trying to compliment you.

(2) Reflect on the pleasant urge of women to be friendly. It's heartening. It just doesn't tell you anything about how you look.

(3) Consult the mirror. Are things that bad? Surely better than days of baldness. You can even wear mascara now.

As any woman who's been through chemo will tell you, first you're bald and then your hair grows back. Feels like porcupine prickles, so much so that when you lie down, you continue wearing those little cotton caps so the prickles don't hurt. After the porcupine phase comes the kinky hair phase. How kinky? 

Think of Brillo. The steel wool inspiring--I believe--Phyllis Diller's hairstyle:

Didn't she once call herself The Brillo Queen? I love her humor as well as her wisdom: "Comedy," she said, "is tragedy plus time."  She added, "There isn't a comic in the world who hasn't come out of tragedy," illustrating the notion with the way an irritant in an oyster shell, over time, creates a pearl.  

Look at her hair! It's pure cancer-lady hair. Mine is shorter at the moment, but she's got my style exactly. When it grows out, I'll try, as I did the last time I had chemo, to tame it with the various greases and glops marketed by my local hair salons and drug stores. 

But it will look just like Madame Diller's hair. 

And it will provoke the following (actual remarks):

 (1) "Oh, you have a new haircut!" This was meant to be friendly--uttered by a store employee at a place I hadn't been to in months. I explained, "Oh, this is just my hair growing out after chemo."

I saw I'd horrified her. I should have kept my mouth shut and said, "Thanks." I made her feel like she'd said something wrong, and I know she meant well. But how, I wondered, could anyone think what was corkscrewing out of my skull was an actual fashion statement?

(2) "Your hair looks great! So punk!" Ladies and gentlemen, the last style I wish to emulate is punk. True, I enjoy looking at punk. Walking through Berlin last weekend, I admired the tattooed people in leather and body piercings wearing black leather, rubber, and what we used to call Hooker Heels. All those people are young. They look to be under thirty. 

If you're under thirty, you can do anything you want to your hair and you'll still look like you're under thirty. 

If you're my post-menopausal age, you want to look younger. Once upon a time before cancer I had long, flowing wavy hair. That's what I want. Long. Flowing. Not Phyllis-Dillery.  

I am told my hair will eventually calm down. It was starting to do just that five years after chemo. Then I needed more chemo. On the plus side, my earrings show more with cancer lady hair.

(3) You look great!

This one deserves a smile, a thank-you, and a mirror check. It means you no longer look like you're at death's door, but your skin is drier and you have a few more lines in your face. Don't fret! Use moisteurizer and remember: when your hair is longer and contains enough glop, your wrinkles aren't quite as prominent. (I tell myself this. And it's my very favorite delusion).

 

Your Spinal Biopsy: Six Tips

(1) Pee before you leave your hospital room. After, they won't let you, unless you're willing to put up with a bedpan.

(2) You'll be lying on your stomach with your head resting on your hands, which is the only pleasant part of the experience. When the technician sends you repeatedly in and out of the CT scanner,  your elbow goes clunk-clunk-clunk as it collides with the tunnel. The radiologist told you not to move. But discreetly inching your elbow away is, according to me, okay.

(3) Try not to shriek when they spray something freezing on your lower back. Yelp quietly if you must. 

(4) The worst part is the needle shooting in the painkiller. I'm sure I didn't sound worse than the folks who were ahead of me, whom I could hear from out in the hall. 

(5) Once the radiologist starts drilling into your lumbar region, pretend it's not you. Visions of the sadistic dentists in Little Shop of Horrors and Marathon Man may fill your head; by the time they do, however, the procedure will be over.

(6) Now is when you thought you'd get to eat. You won't! You'll lie flat on your back for at least two hours. They prefer four. After two, I begged for food so piteously that they allowed me to sit up and eat. After which--yeah, another two hours. Reading Vanity Fair helped.

My At-Least-He's-Indicted Dinner

I had my cake and ate it, too:

Looks very real, doesn't it? But I felt the occasion called for something fake, so I made cake from a box--added eggs, milk, margarine--looks better than it tasted, but Prosecco improved it, and next time I'll do what I always do--follow a good recipe. I have the pleasure of knowing a fake's bad deeds have been officially challenged by the Justice Department. If he weasles out of a conviction or a prison sentence or both, well, then I'll consider this meal comfort food.

He who should not be named is pushing his luck, as he always does. But may truth win. Whatever happens, cake and Prosecco can help.

 

"I'm an Innocent Man Who Did Nothing Wrong"

The gangster king, whose morals are up there with the Bonannos, Colombos, Gambinos, Genoveses and Luccheses, surely has tricks up his sleeve--when did he not?--but maybe it won't be the tricks that carry him.

What may carry him is his absolute belief in himself. That impregnable certainty, that inability to doubt himself, inspires a certain astonished regard.  Even those who, like me, detest him, envy the ability to feel no shame, ever. To experience none of the humiliations of everyday life. Who wouldn't want that? 

Or maybe I'm counting my lucky stars that I feel them. Could I have a moral compass otherwise?

But it's always had a grip on the public, that bullet-proof self-confidence. Jesus seems to have had it, but then so did Napoleon. Hitler. Putin. The ones with political power were mostly male, but female narcissists have their sway--Madonna comes to mind, and I spent more of my youth than I'd care to admit wishing I could project that kind of power. 

Thirty-seven counts against the orange man (as of this writing) and at least two of his lawyers, John Rowley and Jim Trusty, quitting.

Another "Wow" moment, said a CNN reporter. 

I could sleep at night if I were absolutely certain the accused would be convicted and locked up. 

Why Didn't Kaitlan Collins Bully the Bully?

CNN's Kaitlan Collins, "toe to toe" with the orange man, should have punched him in the nose. Articulate, polite, she was no match for a guy whose brand is not playing fair. When he doesn't play fair, you don't play fair.  When he interrupted her, she talked through him--but politely. Poised. Like a reasonable person. He yelled through much of what she said.

She allowed him to be himself. That was fatal.

This cheap bully, this gangster, knows no boundaries, has no morals, no interest in anyone or anything other than himself. Obvious as this is to half the country, it's anything but to the other half. 

Collins did nothing to change the hearts and minds of those who love the guy.

She would have had to bully him. For example, physically leaned forward in his face. Gotten a look on her own like he was a naughty little boy, she was the teacher, and she was going to wag her finger and say, "Stop lying, kid!" Instead, her face remained neutral, polite. Anything but aggressive.

This did not make a good impression with the crowd who loves him. He called her a "nasty person." Got away with that.

Remember how, during the 2016 debates, he prowled behind Hillary Clinton like a huge razorback gorilla? She tried to ignore him. She looked uncomfortable. God, how I wish she'd turned, laughed, and said, "Donald, are we having trouble standing still? Do you need to take a break or can you go back to your podium?" Or even: "Donald, get out of my space!"

That would have been very different from the "basket of deplorables" line that may have sunk her. The former is self-defense. The latter is talking down to half your potential voting bloc.

When the former POTUS acts the way he acted last night, the thing to do is either schoolmarm him into the ground or laugh at him. Break into his lies with, "Oh, come on! Do you expect me to believe that?"

Very different from saying "Nobody believes that," because he's banking on the folks who do believe. The facts, CNN, are irrelevant. The emotional hold he continues to have, the "I am 100% sure of myself and I know everything you need to know and I will tell you what you need to know and you just listen to me and I love you!" is breathtakingly powerful. You can't crack that with his loss in the E. Jean Carroll case or any other potential legal loss. He wants everyone to know he can grab any part of any woman he wants and shoot anyone he wants on Madison Avenue or anywhere else and do it all with impunity.

That is precisely his appeal. CNN, please rise to the occasion and bully him back.  

Bud Light's Big Shake-Up

Alissa Heinerscheid--currently on leave as marketing Vice President of Anheuser-Busch--explained in a recent podcast interview, “I had this super clear mandate: We need to evolve and elevate this incredibly iconic brand.” 

I don't know why Bud Light went into decline, but I can make an educated guess about why it formerly sold well: it offered the taste of beer with fewer calories. I assume the current market offers many alternatives to that desired goal. Heinerscheid's explanation (see her comments on the podcast; the Bud Light comments begin at 23:14) is that the brand had been sold on "fratty out of touch humor" and that "if we do not attract young drinkers" the "iconic brand" won't sell; she therefore wanted to sell it on "inclusivity." 

But that's not how things sell, unless "inclusivity" means all things to all peoples--and it doesn't. "Inclusivity" is about as controversial and difficult-to-define a term as "woke." 

A better way might have been to mount a campaign showing young people bonding over Bud Light--then using that to extend bonding in other areas. Instead, we got Dylan Mulvaney, trans influencer, whose "Days of Girlhood" portrayals of "my hiking heels" and of Eloise at the Plaza have nettled a number of viewers from a variety of political persuasions:

Dylan's quite the performer--her dance skills are extraordinary; her fey acting has a certain charm, although I always come away from her posts with the impression that she's deeply unhappy, despite all the money and style and attempts to look like a feminine fashion plate from the 1950s. The campy style itself suggests profound dissatisfaction. I think most trans persons who are happy with their lot want to get on with their lives, not be stared at. I get the need to make a bundle, but goodness, Dylan's made it.

The point is: her unhappiness comes through. In a commercial too. That's a number one reason for the failure of the commercial.

The second: people bond over what they already have in common--not over something making them feel uncertainty or discomfort. Or sometimes hatred.

A successful commercial might have shown young people bonding over the taste of Bud Light. Then, once that bond is secure, they bond over something else. The difficulty: all this must be accomplished in 48 seconds, if the Dylan Mulvaney spot is anything to go by. Silly me, I thought we had an entire 60 seconds!

So how about this: 30 seconds of lip-smacking over Bud light. Then 15 of a trans young man or woman walking in and saying, "Hey! Can I have some!" Then the critical next 3 seconds:

"Sure, Buddy!" says the top banana

"This is my bro, Tom!" says the second banana. Pop of can opening, sip, lip-smack. "He's trans."

"Great!" All three drink.

That might work. But whatever does work will have to start with what people already share--love of Bud Light in this case--not something that makes them feel unsure, or scared, or angry.

Chicken Innards and Turnip Greens: a Fast, Delicious Stir-Fry

The spectacular weekly market in Chateauroux, France, boasts the freshest of young turnips sprouting vitamin-filled greens, gorgeous artichokes--gorgeous everything--fresh organically-fed chickens, cheeses, breads, croissants .  .  .extraordinary aromas. 

I got a chicken and some turnips I'm planning to make with polenta in a few days, but for lunch today I stir-fried the innards (including the neck) in a tablespoon of olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic powder. A single tip: soak all innards in milk for about half an hour; drain and rinse. This makes them taste better. I threw in the washed, chopped greens after the innards had been frying about a minute:

 I let everything fry, stirring occasionally, for about five minutes:

and then ate:

The chicken juices, salt and pepper gave the greens a great flavor. The neck wasn't edible, but almost everything else was. Simon the cat appreciated licking the remains.

The Tennessee Three: Keep them in the News!

Gloria Johnson, Justin Jones and Justin Pearson, the Tennessee three, who bullhorned their protest against guns, breaking the so-called "decorum" of the legislature, should be getting more coverage and more support.  

They haven't, in the wake of another story: classified documents showing up on social media.

We may not be able to do much about electronic invasions of national security, but we should support these brave three. They risked doing the right thing, preventing children, teachers, ordinary law-abiding citizens from falling victim to violent gun-owners. After the March 27, 2023 mass shooting at The Covenant School in Nashville, in which three nine-year-olds and three adults were killed, Johnson, Jones and Pearson protested, and members of the GOP compared their behavior to the January 6 attack on the capitol. 

Let's compare their behavior to the folks to whom King George the third (underestimating the colonists) thought he could give "a few bloody noses," but who fought bravely and established the United States of America. Support these three in their battle for gun control; they are the underdogs with the just cause, and it is long past time that America had what Europe routinely enjoys: gun control. 

 

P.S. Justin Jones is back in, yay! For some reason they're waiting til Wednesday to bring back Justin Pearson. Why the delay?  

A Poem for Our Times

Think acrostically. Happy to give you a hint.

Puzzle Poem: Find the Secret Message

 

Don't worry, he has to die sometime

Unless he's actually the devil

Maybe he is

Probably not, but maybe

 

Titanically narcissistic

Really they broke the mold on this guy

Underminer of the world, that's he!

Metastatically mean

Please, some God or Gods, evaporate him.

 

My Censored Commentary on a Certain Former President Currently Under Indictment

Curiously, B*logger (as I shall call it) sent a message today indicating that I have crossed some particular boundary of theirs; the verb they used, which begins with "v" is a slightly old-fashioned synonym for "rape." The post was published back in 2017 when James Comey was still the director of the FBI. Punning on his name, I advised readers to do the following:

Make America Read Again
Make America Love Again
Make America Work Again
Make America Help Again
Make America Hope Again
Make America Honorable Again

and in my final lines, which rhymed, but which now won't, I advised readers to re-capture American honor by (here comes the part that now does not rhyme) disposing of a certain former president whose name starts with T. I used a verb beginning with D that rhymes. 

More than ever, I cherish the hope that this unnamed but notorious former POTUS will soon be wearing an orange uniform and spending his days behind bars.

New York, Through a Haze, Darkly

I hadn't set foot in the city since 2017. When did everything start smelling of pot? West 113th Street smells like pot. Simpson Street in the Bronx smells like pot. As does White Plains Road. As does Grand Central. Penn. Broadway. Is there a pot-free street anywhere? The only place I haven't smelled the stuff is inside Town Hall, where I heard a Beethoven Quartet. My friend and I were the youngest people there and we're both sixty-six.

I wouldn't mind people doing it on the weekends, though I'll stick to a glass of red wine myself.

That sickly-sweet, skunky smell is on every block in every neighborhood. 

How do folks function at work?

I walked past Columbus Circle on my way to meet a friend for coffee. Beside the usual group of folks peddling photos and pictures of New York scenes sat a guy with a big sign: NEED WEED?

I don't. I need fresh air. So does New York.

Soy Sauce Chicken Marinade

I looked through a bunch of recipes before coming up with this--several involve ketchup, which I fear nearly always burns. So here's my version:

Chicken drumsticks--six or seven

About three fourths of a cup of soy sauce. Low sodium is usually better, but don't fret if you don't have it. 

About a half cup of honey (or less)

A few dashes of sesame oil--the dark roasted kind

Crushed garlic (several cloves)

Zucchini or the veggie of your choice 

Mix the honey, the soy sauce, the sesame oil and the crushed garlic in a bowl or freezer bag and add the drumsticks. Put the bag in the fridge for around two hours--you can shake the chicken around once or twice. 

Wash and slice zucchini and briefly stir fry. Put in baking dish and load the chicken on top. 

Bake at about 180 for around forty minutes; turn up heat to 200 toward the end. 

 

Enjoy!

Anatomy of a Bestseller, with Spoilers: Where the Crawdads Sing

I was in my local bookstore in Northwestern Germany when I saw Der Gesang der Flusskrebses, in other words, The Song of the Crayfish, otherwise known as Where the Crawdads Sing, Delia Owens' 2018 surprise bestseller.What a romantic cover, I thought: a girl in a canoe paddling off into the sunset, surrounded by blurbs like "unforgettable." Snatching a copy off the shelf, I sank into an armchair, only to hear another woman rhapsodize: "It is so wonderful!" she said. "You will love it!" I was set for a love story and predisposed to one in North Carolina, since my father's family hails from there. 

A beautiful, illiterate, exploited underdog with all the odds stacked against her learns to read, becomes a brilliant naturalist, and finds true love after single-handedly fending off a dangerous, vengeful boyfriend. The whole point turns out to be this: she gets away with his murder! That's the surprising twist at the end. 

Because you hate the guy--and since none would believe the "marsh girl's" testimony against that of the handsome football hero--you're glad she did him in. With careful planning, she lures him to his doom, because that's the only way to prevent him from stalking and destroying her. 

It's not enough. I kept reading through the murder trial wondering who could possibly have killed Chase. I was looking forward to methods and motives. How about the man who loves the marsh girl and wants to protect her? But he only finds out after her death that she actually murdered the guy. A quiet survivalist kills her predator, and everyone cheers.

Not to forget structure: my edition is 368 pages long. Smack-dab in the middle, about page 182 and continuing on for five-ish pages we get various crises: the heroine is gulled by the wicked footballer who pretends to love her. Her true love and she are, for reasons not interesting enough to enter, on the outs. A perepeteia: our heroine sees her footballer's parents, suspects she won't be introduced. By page 194, the reader knows she won't and by page 208 she knows how deeply he has betrayed her.  Suspense is sustained by switching timelines every chapter. By the end, you're just dying to know whether our young heroine will convicted for a crime we think she couldn't possibly have committed; all else is whodunit.

 Many a bestseller--and TV movie--has a twist in or near the middle. Go for it, writers of bestsellers.

Maybe the book's success arises from everyone's loneliness; during COVID, we all felt isolation, and the heroine's isolation was complete. A seven-year-old child trading mussels she digs up for food! Abandoned by her mother, her father, her siblings--until one brother finally comes back. It's an old American story: a loner in the wilderness carves out not just survival but prosperity. Then there's suspense: it's "killing me--I hope it will last!" Oscar Wilde said. I wanted to find out who killed Chase, and was mildly disappointed when the marsh girl turned out to be the culprit. Perhaps the point was that she lived by the ways of animals--eat or be eaten--so had no guilt and not much memory of the murder. She wasn't gleeful about it as far as the reader knows; once it was over, she was done with it and happy to move on. She saved a poem she'd written about luring the guy to his death and a necklace she'd given him, but one feels those things were there only so that her husband (and her readers) could finally discover who the murderer was. I wanted the murder to have a meaning, possibly because I just finished Crime and Punishment, in which murder is drenched with meaning after meaning. Comparisons unfair, of course--but it does seem as though murder should leave some footprint, however faint, in the murderer's brain--not remain forgotten.