Wednesday, April 2, 1997
BOOK:
Author’s downfall lies in lack of character development,
continuityBy Nerissa Pacio
Daily Bruin Contributor
Fuse episodes of casual sex with drug busts, violence and a
sprinkle of pornography, and the nouveau ’90s shock novel is born,
right? Not if you’re Maggie Estep, author of the fictional novel
"Diary of an Emotional Idiot."
Despite Estep’s new-found fame as a featured performer on MTV’s
"Unplugged," Woodstock 2 and Lollapalooza, her novel falls short of
the hype. This native New Yorker, promoted as a "leading figure in
spoken word," may have to rely on her other sources of popularity
because her first book certainly doesn’t meet the mark.
Like many up and coming ’90s authors, Estep falls victim to
typical shock novel writing syndrome where a forced attempt is made
to create the controversial story of sex, drugs and violence.
Sometimes it actually works, but by now, when readers have just
about seen and heard it all, the slight attempt at the ironically
avant garde trend just isn’t enough to pique readers’ interest.
"Diary of an Emotional Idiot" is a perfect example of why not.
As the story of the narrator Zoe’s life unfolds, there is
potential for interest in her obviously dysfunctional life. In a
style that is occasionally raw and poetic, Estep details a dramatic
saga as Zoe is passed back and forth between divorced parents and
grows up supporting her drug habit by writing "fuck books." Readers
learn of Zoe’s life through her own emotionally inept perception of
her experiences.
Unlike the personality development that is implicit in a
coming-of-age novel, this book chronicles a girl who physically
grows in age and maturity, but is left emotionally stunted.
Chapter upon chapter, the reader is bombarded with her moves
across the United States and her aimless wandering towards more
meaningless sex and more drug induced catastrophes.
Starting and ending in New York, with various moves to other
countries including Canada and France, Estep links Zoe’s
relocations with brusque stories of trysts with nameless lovers and
highs with junkie friends.
The novel begins in the present, with a humorous description of
Zoe’s belligerent noisy neighbor downstairs who has the "lung power
of Pavorotti" and whose 2-year-old son screams "Motherfucker,
motherfucker, motherfucker!" while running down the hallway. This
image is enough to crack half a smile, yet the humorously fresh
beginning just isn’t enough to preserve the entire novel. The
deliberately shocking descriptions of acid trips and orgies become
trite and stale.
If Estep’s goal in writing her book was to frustrate the reader
to the point of wanting to stop reading after every page, then she
certainly succeeds. The problem is that despite endless pursuits to
find an ounce of tenderness or even a hint of stark realism in the
novel, the characters are absurd and unbelievable. There isn’t
anyone to care about in this book, beginning with Zoe. Just when an
episode, person or issue becomes slightly interesting, the reader
is cut off from any further knowledge and is thrown into another
topic before any transition is made.
For example, Zoe begins to describe her father in the second
chapter as a "vagabond horse trainer" and a "mechanic who was
drafted into Korea where he jumped out of airplanes." However, with
few mentions of his presence throughout the novel, learning of his
sudden death in the end and of Zoe’s sudden sadness has minimal
significance.
Lacking any real character development, it is impossible to
focus on anyone in the book. The constant skip from one topic to
the next combined with Estep’s inhibiting non-embellishing prose is
enough to infuriate the reader to wonder if this is really a novel
or one big fragmented poem.
Estep gives characters catchy titles to replace their actual
names, as part of her blatant but unsuccessful attempt to write the
trendy novel. Everyone in Zoe’s life, from her first lover to her
friends in the "Idiots Anonymous" support group, is renamed with a
ridiculous word or phrase. For example, Zoe calls her first lover
"Nicholas the reformed horse thief," while her apartment "speed
freak" neighbors are called "Eye Boy and Eye Girl," and an
ex-boyfriend is repeatedly referred to as "Satan."
Estep gives short descriptions of why each person is given such
a title, but this just keeps the reader from connecting with any of
the characters. Perhaps the motivation behind this was to augment
Zoe’s "emotional idiocy," but just because the characters are
disconnected doesn’t mean the reader should be.
Without even a remote underlying interest in the characters,
there is no point in reading on. Dashing from Zoe’s description of
drug-induced lesbian sex with an overweight girl named Hilda to a
repeated episode of Zoe masturbating in "Satan’s" closet, the
reader wonders why any of these random episodes are relevant.
By the end of "Diary of an Emotional Idiot," Zoe’s fate is about
as interesting as her typical description of an acid trip where she
runs around scratching herself raw in a delusional flea attack.
While the story itself lacked continuity or any great interest
in plot or character development, Estep’s talent for spoken word
managed to occasionally peek through. Some phrases were poetic and
refreshing amidst the muck of drug and sex talk. One such moment is
the description of her relationship with one boyfriend as "walking
the serrated edges of intimacy." Another vivid image which Estep
manages to capture in concise poetic prose is a description of a
flirty busboy who looks at her with a "smile sort of bewildered,"
like a "deer-in-headlights smile."
Though containing such interesting phrases that relate a unique
spoken-word style, "Diary of an Emotional Idiot," lacks the key
elements that make the shock novel actually work. Estep’s new novel
would probably be much better off unspoken.
Harmony Books
Maggie Estep’s "Diary of an Emotional Idiot" misses the
mark.