It’s been awhile since I read a book that I’ve liked as much
as Alice Fantastic .
That’s a simple, non-hyperbolic statement that probably won’t cut it
as a book jacket blurb, but screw it: I just liked it. I liked the
characters—professional gambler Alice Hunter; her sister Eloise,
the toymaker; their mother, Kimberly, a recovering addict who lives
with her hot German girlfriend and 15 rescued dogs. I liked the
relationships between these women. I liked author Maggie Estep’s prose,
intelligent and direct. I liked reading a book that allowed for
emotional complexity; that, unlike so much contemporary literature,
didn’t mistake neuroticism for character depth.
On paper, Alice Fantastic sounds like chick-lit trash,
focusing as it does on the romantic misadventures of these three women.
Alice and Eloise accidentally sleep with the same man. Eloise surprises
everyone by going gay, while Kimberly does the same by going straight.
Thing is, though, unlike the majority of so-called “chick lit” authors,
Estep writes as though she knows and likes real women. The Hunter women
are prickly but appealing, grounded by the knowledge that, even when
things have gone to utter shit and they don’t feel like getting out of
bed, the dogs still need to be walked. Estep’s written a great little
book—don’t ignore it just because it’s about women.