Whitecaps on the Lake, by Alice Licata – MAR 2021 LTER
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1LyndaInOregon
Disclaimer: An electronic copy of this book was provided in exchange for review by publishers TouchPoint Press, via Library Thing.
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This is, unfortunately, a really boring book. The main character, from whose viewpoint the entire narrative unspools, is a tightly-wrapped bundle of various obsessions, phobias, neuroses, regrets, feelings of inadequacy, and a general tendency to whininess. Plunged into a paralyzing depression by her father’s sudden death, Imogene Mussomeli takes a leave of absence from the college teaching job she has grown to hate, and moves in with her mother, who is sinking into an Alzheimer’s-like dementia which leaves her in need of 24-hour care. One morning Imogene looks through the narrow opening between the living room curtains and sees something which spells certain doom, catastrophe, and ruination.
Then author Licata takes an 80-page side trip to replay Imogene’s most humiliating and embarrassing memories, with frequent wordy and unrelated retellings of dating catastrophes, her father’s theory of lawn care, and what it was like to be the fifth of six daughters in an upper-middle-class Italian family in Dayton, Ohio, in the 1960s.
Eventually, things swing back around to Imogene’s discovery, via a youthful notebook left by her father, that he may have come into possession, as a child, of a book which is now quite rare and extremely valuable. Then follows 100+ pages of Imogene’s attempts to locate the book, lay hands on it, and verify its value, only to hide it in one of those incredibly stupid “nobody-would-think-to-look-here” spots, which doesn’t prevent it from being stolen (probably because she then left the house unlocked and just happened to mention the book, its value, and its hiding place, while sitting on the back porch having a few drinks with Mom). The woman has a Master’s degree, for godsake. Why didn’t she put it in a safety deposit box in the first place?
Now comes 20 or 30 pages of dithering as she identifies the probable thief, develops a plan to steal the book back, and attempts to carry it out.
Which, eventually, circles us back to the horrible thing she saw through the gap in the curtains. Then she fusses and obsesses about that, and what the likely outcome will be, for another 40 pages or so before everything wraps up in an ending that is, frankly, somewhat of a let-down. Which is quite an accomplishment considering the generally low-energy level of the entire work.
And, oh – if you’re looking for the significance of the title – don’t bother. Other than the fact that Imogene’s childhood home was on the shores of Lake Erie, it has nothing to do with the story or the theme or the plot.
Sorry. This one was just a clean miss.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This is, unfortunately, a really boring book. The main character, from whose viewpoint the entire narrative unspools, is a tightly-wrapped bundle of various obsessions, phobias, neuroses, regrets, feelings of inadequacy, and a general tendency to whininess. Plunged into a paralyzing depression by her father’s sudden death, Imogene Mussomeli takes a leave of absence from the college teaching job she has grown to hate, and moves in with her mother, who is sinking into an Alzheimer’s-like dementia which leaves her in need of 24-hour care. One morning Imogene looks through the narrow opening between the living room curtains and sees something which spells certain doom, catastrophe, and ruination.
Then author Licata takes an 80-page side trip to replay Imogene’s most humiliating and embarrassing memories, with frequent wordy and unrelated retellings of dating catastrophes, her father’s theory of lawn care, and what it was like to be the fifth of six daughters in an upper-middle-class Italian family in Dayton, Ohio, in the 1960s.
Eventually, things swing back around to Imogene’s discovery, via a youthful notebook left by her father, that he may have come into possession, as a child, of a book which is now quite rare and extremely valuable. Then follows 100+ pages of Imogene’s attempts to locate the book, lay hands on it, and verify its value, only to hide it in one of those incredibly stupid “nobody-would-think-to-look-here” spots, which doesn’t prevent it from being stolen (probably because she then left the house unlocked and just happened to mention the book, its value, and its hiding place, while sitting on the back porch having a few drinks with Mom). The woman has a Master’s degree, for godsake. Why didn’t she put it in a safety deposit box in the first place?
Now comes 20 or 30 pages of dithering as she identifies the probable thief, develops a plan to steal the book back, and attempts to carry it out.
Which, eventually, circles us back to the horrible thing she saw through the gap in the curtains. Then she fusses and obsesses about that, and what the likely outcome will be, for another 40 pages or so before everything wraps up in an ending that is, frankly, somewhat of a let-down. Which is quite an accomplishment considering the generally low-energy level of the entire work.
And, oh – if you’re looking for the significance of the title – don’t bother. Other than the fact that Imogene’s childhood home was on the shores of Lake Erie, it has nothing to do with the story or the theme or the plot.
Sorry. This one was just a clean miss.
