Little Weirds

June 24, 2019
In an impossible-to-categorize adult debut, actor and comedian Slate (Marcel the Shell with Shoes On, coauthor) meditates on topics profound and ephemeral with wonder and stark honesty. The unaffectedly whimsical, direct tone is established quickly, with the opening piece’s assertion that “I am actually a homemade Parisian Croissant,” followed by the dictate, “Pair me with jam. Treasure me for my layers and layers of fragility and richness.” Something of a personal narrative does emerge; she describes her childhood in hilarious pieces such as “Fast Bad Baby,” about the troubles she inflicted on her mother by being “so rowdy and speedy.” She ruminates on growing up in a haunted house in Massachusetts, and on leaving it knowing the ghost of her former self would always live there. She admits to debilitating self-doubt (and explains how she moved past it) and celebrates female friendships and self-care. The most moving piece, “I Died: Bronze Tree,” the only work of (overt) fiction, unfolds from the perspective of a recently deceased old woman, whose death follows shortly after her husband’s. Here, and elsewhere, Slate offers an intimate window into not only her mind, but her heart. The result is a dazzling, sensory gift for poetry lovers and fans of Slate’s distinctly odd, but deeply charming humor. Agent: Claudia Ballard, William Morris Endeavor.

Tough times spur a popular stand-up comedian and actor to dive deep into her own inimitable psyche. In Slate's (Marcel the Shell With Shoes On: Things About Me, 2011) intriguing inner world, raindrops are "wet water bloops" that fall unexpectedly from the sky, and brassieres are "cotton cup bags" that respectable ladies are obliged to don before heading out to dinner. The use of deconstructed language allows the author to move beyond the banal and replace it with something that more closely approximates her singular experience of being alive. Whether joyous or sad, Slate's personal journey hasn't always been lighthearted. Indeed, the author feels moved to describe herself as "dying" on multiple occasions throughout her life. She is concerned with many other things, as well, including the nature of lovelorn ghosts and the ethereal goodness of dogs. Underneath the gauzy, shimmering scaffolding, however, is an all-too-universal story about heartbreak, depression, and a failed marriage: "One man was gone from my life just about the time that another man pig-snorted his way into the presidency....I didn't know how or why to give myself small pleasures." Through it all, she has found solace in a circle of good friends and the redemptive powers of a neat house and an incredible garden. Slate seems to fit so comfortably inside the poetic realms of her impressive imagination that she has no need to abandon them, not even when she is rebuking the pernicious ugliness of male patriarchy, another element that has heavily impacted her life. In one particularly powerful interlude, the author achieves biblical grandeur, envisioning herself ripping out the ancient evil root and stem. "I take one last good look at that poison pod and I just go ahead and fling it," she writes. "I fling that pod back into the gloomy section of outer space that is for bad gods with sickly and sour spirits." A uniquely talented writer and performer offers up an unexpectedly uncommon approach to autobiographical writing.

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November 1, 2019

With this collection of short essays, Slate (coauthored with Dean Fleischer-Camp, "Marcel the Shell" picture books) paints a self-portrait of, as she tells herself, "all the little weirds that make up who you are." The resulting amalgam of prose comprises doubt and exuberance, examining self-concept, gender roles, and everything that makes the author a unique human. The overall portrait depicts Slate opening herself up to life, drinking in as much of it as possible, and relating fully to a world with all its joys, disappointments, and everything in between. Those familiar with Slate's previous works will recognize her slightly askew perception and delightful way of reframing the familiar. Here she has full rein with language, and her style is less precise than fulsome, throwing lots of things at the wall and seeing what sticks. Her subject is her whole self but fragmented, in her words, "a weird party for a woman who has returned from grief," both vulnerable and moving, a party even non-partygoers might like to attend. VERDICT This volume mixes the oddball self-examination of Jenny Lawson with moments of poetic insight. Recommended for lovers of fizzy memoirs.--Audrey Snowden, Milford Town Lib., MA

Copyright 2019 Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.

Starred review from September 1, 2019
Readers expecting fluffy hilarity from actress and comedian Slate's first solo-authored adult book (she's the co-author of About the House, 2016, with her father, and the Marcel the Shell children's books) should adjust their dials. In "Introduction/Explanation/Guidelines for Consumption," Slate describes the book?a literary and imaginative collection of memoir-essays and fantasy-dream-ghost tales?as "the act of pressing onward through an inner world that was dark and dismantled." Across pieces that vary in tone and style, a vulnerable account of losing love and wanting desperately to re-find it emerges. Other topics include making a home for herself, reckoning with the pain of patriarchy, and treating herself and others with tenderness. But amidst the heartbreak, Slate leaves room for all sorts of lightness and laughter. Multiple essays are titled "I died" (while listening to a man explain the concept of listening; from the joy of making her father a sardine sandwich) and "I was born" ("in shin-guards on a soccer field on a chilly little morning in the 1980s"). One piece is a list of questions, including "Is a wig a hat?" This unconventional collection gives true insight into Slate as both an artist and a person, and will more than reward curious readers.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2019, American Library Association.)