When We Lost Our Heads, by Heather O’Neill
I’m trying a new thing this year: writing the occasional review.
It could be about books, movies, music, or other things that are somewhat or slightly connected to the experience of being a writer.
This is an experiment — let’s see how it goes.
First of all: Books can be powerful. We all know that, at least on some level. That’s why some people want to stop other people from reading them.
And when I’m writing, I always feel like I have to be extra careful about what I read. I worry I’ll start unintentionally imitating the voice. (Although I haven’t seen much evidence of that lately, I still think it will happen.)
I also worry that I’ll read something that will discourage me. That’s what’s happened to me when I asked for George Saunders’ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain for a Christmas present last year. I know other writers loved the book and got a lot from it, but that kind of close examination of the Russian masters triggered my over-zealous internal editor, and turned out to be fatal to my own writing for a few very painful weeks.
Ideally, when I’m writing, I want to read books that are the literary equivalent of that old story about the Velvet Underground: they didn’t sell that many records while they were still together, but everyone who bought one started a band.
So what I always hope for is the kind of book that makes me run to my notebook or computer. The books that make my head buzz with ideas. That make me pull over my car to write down descriptions or plot lines quickly before I forget.
Second: No one else writes like Heather O’Neill.
And her books are always strong stuff.
And… sometimes I just don’t feel tough enough for Heather O’Neill. I’ve been gutted and messed up by her books before, starting (like a lot of other people) with Lullabies for Little Criminals.
On the other hand, earlier this year I watched an excellent video where O’Neill talks about writing, and reading, and writing community, and the differences between English and French storytelling traditions, among a lot of other things. (“McGill24: Writing your story – Heather O’Neill in conversation with Kasia Van Schaik.”)
It was energising. It started to give me that get-out-and-start-a-band feeling.
And a couple of weeks ago — by pure luck — I managed to get a copy of When We Lost Our Heads at my local public library.
Now back to that second point: No one writes like Heather O’Neill.
So, a little nervously at first, I dove into When We Lost Our Heads. And I was glad I did. To extend the Velvet Underground / rock & roll metaphor a bit further, I felt right away that she is not at all interested in sounding like everyone else on the radio, or changing her topics or style to appeal to a broad audience. And if she buffs something it’s to make it gleam — which is a lot different from sanding down the edges to make it less dangerous.
More than that, after reading and getting accustomed to quite a lot of utterly devastating but also very “show, don’t tell”-style literary writing over 2022, it was deliciously bracing to spend time in the world of this book, with its unashamed telling and the snicker-snack of O’Neill’s vorpal blade cutting through the bullshit with startling directness.
What bullshit? Oh, you know, just in general. Look around. Her subjects here include capitalism, misogyny, social inequality, gender roles and identity, sex work, social history, feminism, female friendship, cruelty, selfishness, female sexual pleasure, reproductive freedom, the divide between the English and French in Québec, and many other kinds of injustice. (In no particular order. And just to name a few.)
Her characters are almost entirely women, and almost entirely not anyone you would want to have a beer with. (I say almost because I would very much like to have a beer with George.) They are mostly or entirely named after major French Revolution figures, and they are generally pretty unpleasant, in the ways their names would imply.
(I’m not super confident about this, but I think O’Neill is pulling names a bit more broadly than just from this one set of historical events — although my own spotty education and limited Wikipedia browsing may have let me down here.)
As a reader, I felt like I was watching O’Neill make an announcement: “I’m not going to waste our time being subtle about the symbolism here. Here are your archetypes. Let’s go!”
After an announcement like that, some people will say this book is not for them — just like some people will leave the bar when they see the band walk in with big guitar amps.
But for me this was a signal to hang onto my chair and see where the author was going to take me.
For me, this was an invitation to get out my own guitar and tube amp and overdrive pedal, and make some noise.
And yes, I did have to stop my car yesterday, so I could write down a story idea.
I loved this book. Thank you, Heather O’Neill.