The Pact - Jodi Piccoult

I normally ent a judgin’ when it comes to literature, but Jodi Piccoult just asks for it. Seriously. As a commie at heart, I care not for the superiority complex some can get over their untranslated Dostoyevsky. In fact, I can sometimes be found chowing down on a diet of Mills and Boon, a grassy bit of lawn and a cocktail on a sunny day. Put quite simply, a good read is a good read. Which comes to my point…

Jodi Piccoult. Oh Jodi. Even the lack of ‘e’ in her first name sends a shiver down my spine.  Nevertheless, I cannot but admit that I have read a handful of her prolific and surprisingly indistinguishable body of work. In the muddle of lost kids, secretly dysfunctional families and body part transplants is one basic formula:

(Timely issue + Very attractive female leftie govt worker + High flying jerk of a cocky lawyer turned pro-bono) – secretly dysfunctional family issues = happy family.

It is on this formula that Piccoult has firmly entrenched herself alongside Maeve Binchy, Agatha Christie and Bryce Courtenay into the genre of white housewife drama and, as a result, she can somehow be found in pretty much any bookshelf in any English reading household today.

Which is all well and fine. I love the entertainment. I love the drama. I love the fact that, along with CSI, reading Piccoult novels are my only way of becoming a forensic scientist. But somehow, I have a problem with it.

I don’t know what it is. She possesses so many characteristics that I find so attractive in a pulp, but not quite. I think that, maybe, the problem is that I can’t quite distinguish between any of her produce. You see, even though this post is titled The Pact, I probably should inform that I only listed this particular one because it is sitting in my direct line of sight right now.

See: I can remember the difference between Courtenay’s Potato Factory and Jessica. I can distinctly remember why I enjoyed Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House more than The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I can’t for the life of me remember what happened in Vanishing Acts and can only remember The Pact because I read the blurb.

While I feel that the entertainment factor in a book is excellent and most vital, I feel that it is also quite vitally important that the plot and characters are remembered. Otherwise, it’s just a whole lot of time wasted on something that didn’t even leave an impression. Unless you were looking to kill time anyway. On a beach. In the sun. With cocktail in hand.

Then, I guess, it’s a-ok.

Tags: Agatha Christie, beach, Books, cocktails, Dostoyevsky, entertainment, Jodi, Piccoult, sun, The Pact