OK, call me snarky, but it seems there's a new category in fiction,which I'll call "high chick lit." "The Red Book" is crammed with cringingly overly self-satisfied characters. Basically, the plot is they can nevah get ovah their young Harvad-educated selves. So instead of the unblinkingly honest character probes by the undeniably well-educated author (Harvard-educated), we have a bunch of privileged Forty-something's mixing and matching during a 20th reunion. How I longed to be able to relate to just one, just one of them. All right, not longed, but it sure would have made turning the pages less of a guilty summer timewaster. Why I am being so hard on the author? Because she has talent and she decided to write a made for t.v. movie book instead. Next time out, I hope she doesn't go for the easy fix.
About my latest book, a novel, "Gringa in a Strange Land." Set in Mexico in the early '70's, a(n American) female on-the-road adventure, a coming of age tale, but also a kind of love letter to southern Mexico, especially the Yucatan, during the tempestuous counterculture and - many of us thought - the edge of a new era throwing off repression, war and dictatorship (man, were we wrong.)