I often dream about having my own book, in garish neon colours. Something that screams MODERN FUCKING FICTION MOTHERFUCKERS (ooh, good title *makes note in empty journal*) and that turns into something someone, someone just like me, will pick up in Fopp because they need a second book to take advantage of their 2-for-£5 offer and they’ll be damned if they’re paying full price for the one book they don’t particularly need when they can have two books they don’t need for even less.
I don’t know anything about Miranda and I don’t want to - if you were to cobble together a biography purely on this collection of short stories you’d probably come up with a sexually fluid daydreamer with low self esteem and a very dry sense of humour. This is exactly the kind of person I would want to be friends with, so I don’t want to ruin it by reading anything about her Actual Real Life that might shatter this illusion.
The word to describe Miranda July’s style is pithy. Pithy. She has an inspiring knack of throwing in killer sentences, warping conventions or popular myths and wrapping them into whatever mini-narrative she’s driving. I love it, and at the same time would love to read something meatier, as everything hints that she could sustain these observations and unwrap them around a character developing. Like watching a garden blossom, rather than being handed a succession of beautiful but doomed bouquets of flowers.