How to Pick a Good Summer Read

I am happy to share with you what I look for in a good summer read because I am not, as one’s ex-husband described, ungenerous.

For God’s sake, I do not want to be challenged. No “hard” literature that I have to slog through to discover a deep and twisted meaning. Those books have no place on the jitney—of that, I’m sure we can all agree!

I like a summer read to be only as complex as a white cashmere sweater with a whiskey stain on it:

How did that stain get there?

Will that stain come out?

Does the character have a drinking problem?

If yes, that drinking problem should not create great disruption to the narrative flow. An upsetting wedding toast is great. A car crash followed by death belongs nowhere in a summer read, unless, of course, it happened in the distant past to someone close to our cashmere-wearing friend.

Appropriate settings include weddings, engagement parties, trips abroad, East Coast boarding schools, clambakes, lobster broils, and other crustacean-centric eating parties, where even the anorexic characters can have fun.

Inappropriate settings: rent-controlled apartments, Denny’s, highway underpasses.

I want to be able to understand the novel half-drunk on rosé. The sentences should breeze by like a handsome man on a Vespa on the Montauk Highway. Speaking of characters, if one of them is a handsome man on a Vespa on the Montauk Highway, count me in! Give that character my number and tell him to call me.

My ideal summer novel is delicately balanced on the edge of frivolity. And if I’m not genuinely moved at least once, I will chuck your novel at one of the non-bougie stops along the L.I.R.R.

The drama should feel VERY real to the characters but be very silly in contrast to anything you read in the world-news section of the New York Times. Speaking of the Times, I need you to flip to the most e-mailed section—yes, see the article about how Rossos from the Etna region are becoming popular at farm-to-table restaurants? That most-e-mailed article is something the characters in your novel would send each other.

Imagine that a summer novel is a home—what kind of kitchen would it have? Subway tiles? YES, I will read you. Anything involving a stove with an electric range? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Take your ugly stove and no-back-splash sink and get thee to the winter months. I’m looking for the novel version of a Nancy Meyers movie—all whitewashed, with the majority of the action taking place around a beautiful center island.

More helpful guidelines:

Descriptions of clavicles in white linen dresses: YES.

Cancer: NO.

Sicily: YES.

Reno, Nevada: NO.

Joints passed among Wasps: YES.

Meth smoked by weird uncles: NO.

Dirty martinis: YES.

A character named Dirty Martini: NO.

A ranch in Montana:

If it’s a second home, YES

If it’s not, NO. NO. NO.

Listen, keep it short. Brevity is key. I’m reading this book for a day, day and a half, max. Anything longer will be dropkicked into fall.

When I’m passed-out drunk on the beach, half buried in sand and getting a nasty sunburn because I forgot to reapply expensive sunblock, these are the sorts of books I want covering my face.