Jami Attenberg's acerbic, astute All Grown Up is also an exploration of the singular challenges of modern womanhood, and it's often a hilarious one. The novel's central question—why is it so hard to find love?—is age-old, though its trappings are unmistakably 21st century. Andrea, 39, is an unattached Brooklynite who's put aside her dream of being an artist to make a living in advertising. Her prized possession is a loft from which she can glimpse the Empire State Building, until new construction blocks her view. She is ferocious and unfiltered, "the captain of the sinking ship that is my flesh," as she tells herself. The story weaves back and forth through time, from Andrea's childhood onward, revisiting the relationships that have made her who she is—from men she still longs for to a brother whose daughter is dying to people who stick around even when she's at her prickliest. Giving her friend Indigo a comforting hug, Andrea advises her "never to use the word ‘journey' around me again"—just the sort of savory-sweet touch we come to admire in this exquisitely of-the-moment novel.
— Michele Filgate
