In Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, we have what we might call the plotless novel. An elderly preacher writes a journal to his seven-year-old son who, were it not for all these pages, will never know him. I mean, it’s beautifully written, sometimes too wifty-woo beautiful. But is that all we have here? A father explaining old history, old friendships, how-I-met-your-mother?

Of all the books I’ve read this year, why does the library keep reminding me that someone waits in line behind me to get their hands on this story?

Then again, as the father keeps writing, he works up the nerve to speak about a threat that looms on the horizon of the entire family.

It’s a nice, ordinary-people threat. Most novels grip us with troubles that will never happen you or me or anybody we know. Their protagonists fight off space aliens, or get trapped in mines, or survive school shootings.

Gilead’s threat builds quietly, but it’s unsettling enough to make me say, No wonder another reader wants this book.

So here’s to the troubles of ordinary people, and books set in ordinary places (Iowa, in this case. How much more ordinary can you get?).  Our troubles keep us up at night and make us wonder: Where did I go wrong? Am I only messing things up more? Will my worst imaginings come true?

Of course this stuff is novel-worthy.

Photo credit: Ganamex on Visual hunt / CC BY-NC