Maybe It’s Me: On Being the Wrong Kind of Woman

Novelist Pollack (The Only Woman in the Room) delivers an insightful gaggle of essays about her life, largely through the lens of being an American Jewish woman. With wry intellect, she reflects on coming of age in New York’s “Borscht Belt” in the 1960s with her “soulmate,” a parakeet named Ish Kabibble; wistfully mourns the summer waitressing job where, at 16, she learned more about herself than what went into Howard Johnson’s “lumpy” milkshakes; explores such universal dilemmas as dating via apps as an adult (“If you tell me you are six feet tall, and when you show up you are five foot two, you know what I am going to think you are? A liar”); and ruefully laments the harsh realities of growing older (“Here is what it is like to be in your sixties. You lie in bed wondering if anyone will ever see your breasts again”). Together these essays underscore Pollack’s knack for wringing humor from the mundane, successfully striking at the paradoxical ways in which “sex and birth (and love) can be beautiful as well as ugly, wondrous as well as painful, enticing and mysterious as well as frightening and repulsive.” This is a hoot. Agent: Jenni Ferrari-Adler, Union Literary. (Jan.)