Beach Block Blues: Don't Hit Snooze, Your Pop Rock Jam is Up Next

Writer's block.  We've all had it.  That voice that mockingly chants, There's nothing new under the sun.  Everything that needs to be said has been said.  So park yourself in front of a Real Housewives marathon with a feed bag of Cheetos and give up already.  Now imagine that you're broke and the ability to purchase said Cheetos depends on you churning out the novel you promised your agent by the end of the summer.  And that your crush-slash-nemesis, who's also a writer, just happens to be your new neighbor.  And that he's broke with writer's block too.

Welcome to Emily Henry's Beach Read.  And yes, it's the very same Emily Henry who wrote People We Meet on Vacation, that other rom com I just read about writers.  This time, the heroine is January Andrews, and her neighbor is Augustus "Gus" Everett.  Both nurse deep emotional wounds, and both are loath to admit it.  But their shared college past injects a jolt of electricity and fun into their fledgling friendship.  Sweet yet full of substance (Think Bundt cake instead of cotton candy.  Although cotton candy does make an appearance.), this novel is as much about the writing process as it is about romance.  I love how it challenges the idea that chick lit writers and readers are "less than."  As a writer of women's fiction, January is an ambassador from that world.  Scrappy and witty, she's quick to defend her genre and how it helped her through a tough time.  Gus, on the other hand, is firmly in camp literary fiction and as such, aptly cast as January's brooding antagonist.  But when the two switch genres for the summer, what starts as a game to beat writer's block ends up making them better storytellers and brings them closer to each other -- and to their true selves.  My favorite part is when Gus reveals that, contrary to what January thinks, he respects her writing:

"You make beautiful things, because you love the world, and maybe the world doesn't always look how it does in your books, but . . .  I think putting them out there, that changes the world a little bit.  And the world can't afford to lose that." (293)  

Well put, Gus.  Realism has its place, but one of the reasons we read is to get out of our heads and realize that life's not so bad.  Too much reality can send us right back to those Cheetos -- and the bad kind of unrealistic fiction (i.e. reality TV).  That said, Beach Read is also funny.  Henry's banter game is as strong as ever, and January and Gus's convos are a hoot.  Because you can't choke down the kale of personal growth without a large dose of ranch dressing.  

Even if January and Gus eat mostly pizza.  

Thirty Years War Behind a Pink Door: Barbie Barkeep, Keep 'em Coming

When I found these World's Smallest brand Barbies and Barbie Dreamhouse on Amazon and Zulily respectively, I thought, that's weird.  And not just because the Barbies, Thumbelina-like as they were, were too big to fit in the house.  But because shrinking classic toys down to choking hazard size for the amusement of adults is funny.  The Barbies came in just two styles: 1965 Barbie, who's an astronaut, and 1992 Barbie, who reigns under the Rapunzel-esque title Totally Hair.  

1965 Barbie was, of course, way before my time, and I was too old for 1992 Barbie when she hit the shelves.  But my preschool had the same A-frame dreamhouse, albeit in orange and yellow.  So seeing its mini me made me nostalgic and had me clicking "add to cart" faster than you can say, "We girls can do anything, right Barbie?"  (Well played, World's Smallest, well played.)  

When the goods arrived, I saw that the dreamhouse came with decals of domestic doodads including curtains, shrubbery, and one long lounge chair that didn't seem to fit anywhere.  As I stuck them to the interior walls, my wrist at an unnatural angle, I couldn't help but think that the task seemed needlessly difficult.  Maybe the brain trust at World's Smallest wanted to make the experience as authentic as possible by transporting us back to a time when we were still struggling with silverware.  Then I realized that I could detach the cardboard, making everything easier, and felt kind of sheepish.  Which shouldn't have been a surprise, because it took a long time for five-year-old me to learn how to tie my shoes.  In that vein, "setting up house" also made me think about how far Barbie has come -- and how far she still has to go.  What would 1965 Barbie and 1992 Barbie say to each other -- and to us -- if they could?  This is what I imagine: 

1992 Barbie climbed out of the Uber and looked up at the pink dreamhouse.  A passing breeze ruffled her floor-length hair, and a squirrel almost got stuck in it.  She sighed.  Once, a seagull had become ensnared, its filthy feathers caught in her crimped blond locks during a freak nor'easter on Coney Island.  She'd been doing a photo shoot for Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow magazine, her very first modelling gig.  She thought she'd been big stuff back then, but it turned out that the only big thing was her hair.  Barbie 1992 sighed, ordered herself to shake it off Taylor Swift style, and tugged at the hemline of her too-short dress.  The squirrels didn't need to see her butt crack.

Before she knew it, she was ringing the doorbell, her heart going into overdrive.  This was all so strange, and she hadn't had time to process it.  But when the door opened, she was forced to tuck her thoughts away.  A woman sporting a spacesuit and a blond bob straight from the '60s stared back at her, a tight smile straining her face.  "You're late," she said.  Then she stepped aside to reveal a pink-furnished foyer and living room.

"I know, I'm sorry," sputtered 1992 Barbie, her feet hitting the glossy marble.  "There was an accident on the Santa Monica Freeway; a dog groomer's van overturned, and there were Yorkies and Shih Tzus everywhere.  Oh, and a pit bull that didn't make it."

Helmet Head nodded.  "A pity.  Let me show you your room so you can put down your things."  She paused, suddenly noticing that the newcomer was nearly empty-handed.  "Where's your luggage?"

Barbie 1992 looked down at her pink high-heel-encased feet.  "This is all I have," she said, holding up her handbag.  "Ken 1992 got everything in the divorce.  He wanted a second chance, but I could barely look at him after catching him in the '57 Chevy with Teen Sweetheart Skipper."

Helmet Head's ice blue eyes narrowed.  "Bastard.  You know, Ken 1965 died drinking a mai tai that turned out to be lava lamp liquid.  He left me penniless."

"That's awful."  Barbie 1992 tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down without being asked.  "I hope you don't mind, but my feet are killing me."

"Stop apologizing," decreed Helmet Head.  "It makes you sound like a child.  And you don't have to tell me about aching feet.  Why do you think I still wear these moon boots?  They're so comfy they're like walking on clouds.  I'm Veronica, by the way."

"Nice to meet you.  I'm 1992 Barbie."

"Not here you're not.  Every woman in this house has a name.  What do you want yours to be?"

1992 Barbie was quiet.  No one had ever asked her that before.  But once she relaxed, the answer was clear.  "Well, I've always liked the name Lila.  It makes me think of lilacs, my favorite flower."  Emboldened, she went on.  "I probably shouldn't be asking you this, but if you were an astronaut, then how did you end up broke?"

Helmet Head -- no, Veronica -- smiled again, this time with a hint of humor.  "I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Hair Model of the Year five years running.  How does your neck not snap from the weight of that mane?  Never mind.  We've got plenty of time to talk about it.  In fact, we have an eternity."  Her smile faded when she glanced out the window, as if it showed her something she didn't want to see. "Welcome to the Halfway House of Broken Dreams, Lila.  Now, what can I get you to drink?"

And so wraps the pilot of Real Barbies of Beverly Hills, sci-fi edition.  Because that, apparently, is the medium through which our dear Barbie chooses to speak.  

Be sure to tune in next time to find out who poured Ken 1965 that fatal lava lamp cocktail.

But not really.  I think we already know the answer to that one.