Seldom do I find a TV show or movie that I like more than the books that inspired them. The Notebook and A Walk to Remember may be the exceptions here (I remember when I loved Nicholas Sparks…), and Crazy Rich Asians was so good on the silver screen that it was a close call. The adapted screenplays of two TV shows in recent years neared the quality of their inspirations as well: Sweetbitter and Big Little Lies.
So when I heard that sequels to both of these shows were coming to my living room this year, I perked up.
But then the premieres came and went. Season two of Big Little Lies premiered when I was in Africa, and I never attempted to watch when I returned. I couldn’t help but feel lackluster toward it. Then, one Saturday not too long after, I tried watching an episode of Sweetbitter. I was already a few behind and expected to binge the series. Five minutes into that one episode, though, I turned it off. Admittedly, some small skepticism had been brewing for these shows since my initial excitement; it was just a matter of time before the reasoning clicked. That confirmation came in the shape of Sweetbitter‘s five-minute failure when I realized that the non-sequel sequel is not my forte.
Because I’m a New York transplant, I naturally gravitate toward the books that highlight the trials and tribulations of this overwhelming place (see Still Me, The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street, The Futures, and about a million others I haven’t reviewed yet). Stephanie Danler‘s Sweetbitter fit that mold, which is why I added it to my bookshelf in 2017.
This storyline makes for great TV too, and on May 6, Starz premiered a six-episode Sweetbitter based on a screenplay written by Danler who also worked as an executive producer. Brad Pitt’s production company, Plan B, coproduced the series.
It would be a shame if Big Little Literature let this opportunity pass; therefore, it’s time for Sweetbitter to go toe to toe: book versus TV show.
Nobody can argue that many aspects of 2017 were piles of flaming garbage. That doesn’t mean literature failed us though. I read 24 books* this year. While there’s never enough time for all the wonderful writing in the world and while I wish I had read more, I am more than satisfied with the books I chose this year. Therefore, to the Big Little Literature library: You got ranked.
*This number does not count Zadie Smith’s Swing Time and Aravind Adiga’s Selection Day, which I just could not finish.
I can’t exactly describe when it happened, but at some point in the past 12 months, books sort of became my life blood. I’ve loved reading as long as I can remember. There was the first story, Dick and Jane, that I read in preschool, and I firmly remember my mom telling my kindergarten teacher that I’d already finished multiple books halfway through the school year. My teacher was ecstatic upon hearing this news, and even though I was proud of the triumph they exuded, I didn’t think it was all that exciting. Reading was a part of my life. It was that simple.
Dick and Jane–my first book!
Next came Little Golden Books, which I devoured, and then I had my “Ah ha!” moment with Harry Potter. (I don’t think I need to explain this. I mean, I was the kid who played Harry Potter at recess and fought with her brother about who got to read the newest book first and what the reading increments were.)
From there I discovered the 50 state books that my elementary school library owned. Around this same time I also read nearly every Bailey School Kids book (any and all fans HAVE to check out this list), and all of this resulted in me completing more book reports than any other child in Mrs. Wrigley’s third grade class. Children’s fiction shortly gave way to my Nicholas Sparks phase. This preceded an intense fascination with chick lit, which still exists by the way, and Emily Giffin, my favorite author. And during my college days, I discovered my love for historical fiction, still my favorite genre.