The Only True Genius in the Family
Jennie Nash

Reviewed by Araminta Matthews

When this book was pitched to me by my editor, I was excited.  I remember relating to the concept of a family of artists as, I, myself, come from one.  Once the book arrived, I began reading it right away.  I really wanted to like this book.  The truth is, I didn't. 

Jennie Nash, while an adequate writer when it comes to putting words together in a comprehensible string without betraying any glaring grammatical rules, wrote a mediocre book.  At no point in this novel was there a gripping moment of tension that had my knuckles whitening around the pages.  None of the characters were very developed, or very realistic.  The overall arc was boring and lifeless.  All in all, I found this novel to be one unrestrained, deafening snore. 

The story follows Claire, a mediocre photographer mostly of food spreads, who is the daughter of a world-famous artist, and the mother of a presumably talented painter, Bailey – though the descriptions of Bailey's paintings suggest she is just another hotel-room artist painting eagles and landscapes for local truck-stop, all-night diners.  The tale opens as Claire's world-famous papa dies, something she declares to be an inconvenience her father most likely executed on purpose.  And this is just the beginning.  Truly, there are no words to describe the level of self-obsession this main character has.  Not only does she assume her father's death was meant to inconvenience her life, but she interacts with her daughter as if her daughter's purpose is to satisfy Claire's needs.  Then, when her daughter rightfully resents her for it, Claire calls across the country to her friend Bridget, whose sole existence seems to hinge on what "she can do for Claire", and proceeds to only talk about herself, as if her friend, has no needs either.  While a shallow, arrogant, self-centered main character is often valid in literature, the characterization of Claire seems more symptomatic of the author's inadequacy at developing a deep character than it seems to be a purposeful characterization of a real personality. 

In addition to poor characterization and a boring story arc, Nash proceeds to batter the reader over the head with impoverished language and imagery more likely found in a sixth grader's sorry, thesaurus-addled attempt at fiction than in a published work.  For example, Nash writes "As soon as I got settled in bed that night, the sound of the waves reverberated through my head like the echo of an evil god bent on causing insanity" (11).  Seriously?  Where is the sensory detail, or the descriptive adjectives, in this sentence?  Ken MacRorie, author of Telling Writing, would likely call this Engfish in its worst state – near-dead, flopping language gasping on the shore. 

Having said that, it is probably pertinent to point out that, in spite of my impulse to recycle this novel in the nearest curbside pick-up bin, I did manage to gulp my way through every page.  While the story is boring, it isn't terrible.  In fact, I could see soccer moms finding a minor respite from the daily drudgery in this novel if they were hard-pressed for literary options.  Indeed, if I were stuck on a plane for a few hours, I might have found this book at least mildly interesting.