I was reading a book review by Heather Havrilesky on Salon not long ago that drew me in with the following subheading:  

“Why do memoirs about troubled marriages turn us into such judgmental harpies?”

I’d expected to love it. I remember being wildly intrigued when I first heard that Powell, who also wrote Julie and Julia, had taken up butchery, had an affair, and wrote all about it in her new book. She had such a delightful dark side in the first book, most of which was sweetened beyond recognition by the Amy Adams/Nora Ephron treatment in last summer’s movie version. I couldn’t wait to hear Powell’s perspective on a bigger, messier story. Like infidelity.

Now there’s a topic that brings out the shrill like nobody’s business. The book didn’t interest me from a gossipy or pearl-clutching perspective, but I must admit I was intrigued at the prospect of the vicarious thrill – to dip my toes in the affair of a smart, sassy, introspective writer. Because, let’s face it, it’s pretty unlikely that I’m going to have my own affair. Not that there aren’t some delicious hypotheticals out there, but I’m simply too tired, too self-conscious about this old twice-pregnant body, and – yes – too written-in-blood attached to Mr. Black. It would take a whole lot of slogging through hell and back for another person to earn that level of trust, love, and comfort from me.

But, while I have no actual desire to get real-life naked and imperfect with another person, the mind does tend to wander on occasion. And I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to acknowledge the impulse. That’s where a little harmless literary escape comes in. (Why do you think the Twilight series is so popular in my demographic?)

I think I came to Cleaving expecting Powell to have my affair for me. Just like she cooked all those Julia Child dishes for me in her first book. So I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that, instead of sweeping me away, Cleaving just made me . . . well, shrill.

Powell serves up a cold, honest account of how she held her puppyish husband at resentful arm’s length. And the affair itself was just kind of lame. The repartee wasn’t all that charming, and she’s college-girlishly impressed with all these dippy superficialities like his bite marks on her arm or “the sounds he made me make.” Just . . . yawn. There’s no depth; there’s no bittersweet pull. The husband is a loveable doormat and the other man is the same textbook sleazy charmer we all got over in our twenties. (He jokes about her husband while they’re in bed together, even pretends to be the husband in front of one of Powell’s fans. Ick.)

But the worst part is, she recounts all his banality with such a sense of fondness and immense loss, all the while resenting her husband for his very sweetness and strength. And she can be such a ninny sometimes – constantly texting the guy long after he’s abruptly cut her out, trying everything in her bag of tricks to regain his attention (including, probably, writing the book itself).

See? Shrill. I’ve got lots more of this stuff, but I’ll spare you. I’m more interested in considering the intensity of my reaction, here. Usually when I don’t like a book, I simply stop reading and bring it back to the library. Something clearly touched a nerve, here. Which brings me back to the original question in that Salon subheading: Why does someone else’s story bring out such a strong reaction in the readers? (And believe me, I’m far from the only shrill reader out there. This lady’s got a mob of angry villagers waving torches in every “comments” section.)

I don’t know. I’m pro polyamory, but it’s hard to write about my own monogamous choices without sounding a little sanctimonious. And, obviously, I’m pro confessional narrative non-fiction, which makes it downright hypocritical to slam another writer for pouring her own confused, imperfect heart out in a book. Although I do wish she’d been able to give the subject more time and perspective before writing about it. She was obviously still mired in her own obsession and self-loathing when she wrote Cleaving, and that’s exactly how it reads.

So what we end up with is . . . well . . . what an affair actually looks like. There was no vicarious thrill, here. More like a bucket of cold water. Because it’s all too painfully identifiable. If I ever did let myself go and engage one of my harmless crushes – if I ever did feel the real feelings and let the real person in – it would probably look a lot like this mess. Sort of like when a recovering alcoholic falls off the wagon; supposedly that first drink will be just as disastrous as their last.

So I wonder if that’s why readers get so worked up about this stuff? Because it forces us to imagine ourselves at our weakest? Because it asks us to empathize with someone who’s crossed all kinds of lines we don’t dare cross ourselves? Because it makes light of all the hard work it takes to really make a marriage any good?

Cleaving isn’t fiction. This is what we really look like in all our confusion, hypocrisy, narcissism, and desire. You can argue that it’s not Art, you can argue that it’s not a very good book. But it’s given me a lot to think about. So that’s got to count for something.