When I was a child writing travel stories in spiral notebooks, could I have imagined someday being reviewed in The Washington Post? I don’t think so. For one thing, I didn’t learn of the existence of newspapers other than The Tulsa World until much later.
I admire criticism enormously and, when it’s done well, I find it as suspenseful and engaging as any fiction. The review is a particularly delicate subgenre, however, one that I have struggled with myself. Unless you have a very strong opinion—love or hate—it can be hard to wrestle with hundreds of someone else’s pages in only a few hundred words. (In point of fact, I’ve found it hard to sum up love, as well, so perhaps it is only hate that lends itself to easy-breezy review? I’d be interested to know people’s thoughts here.)
In the time leading up to the publication of a book, it’s hard not to get at least a little nervous. I know I’ve been nervous. For one thing, the person who edited The Extinction of Irena Rey, the excellent novelist Daniel Loedel, just quit his job in publishing to go off and write excellent novels, leaving me to face critiques and readers alone. (Although of course Daniel is around and no doubt ready to duel on Irena Rey’s behalf should such eventualities arise.)
But the other thing is that I finished the manuscript of The Extinction of Irena Rey when I was eight months pregnant with twins and could no longer access the keyboard of my laptop due my sprawling abdominal region (and the football-like festivities therein) and the fact that my third trimester wreaked havoc on all of my body, blurring my vision and giving me carpal tunnel syndrome.
Yet this was nothing in comparison with what came next! Because my ingenious editor, the aforementioned Daniel Loedel, came to me with notes for a massive overhaul of said manuscript when my twins were in their fourth trimester, that is, a time of nobody sleeping ever and everybody weeping all the time (but especially my husband and me), and so, while trying to keep two infants alive, I massively overhauled the manuscript.
It was the best edit I’ve ever done, of anything, and for reasons I assume are obvious, it was the hardest one, too. After that main revision, there was a flurry of smaller ones, and in addition to trying to keep two infants alive, I started a new job. So that in truth I’m not sure how what I wrote got written, and I’m not even entirely sure what parts got cut and what parts stayed in, what I threw in at the last minute, whether I said that thing I meant to say, and whether I took care of all my characters, in the end, because I do love these characters and want them to thrive and be well in the world, but there are a lot of them, and they’re all very strong-willed.
My first book, Homesick, was partly about learning to give up needing a sense of control over the world and what happens. I wrote it in a very controlled way: pristine (I hope) prose, neatly cropped photographs, a logical, chronological narrative that rises to a climax and then subsides, spreading outward like water after the crash of a wave.
But, and even putting the circumstances of writing and revising aside, I wanted The Extinction of Irena Rey to be the opposite of all that. There was a reason I set my second book in Europe’s last primeval forest: I wanted my translator-characters to go wild, and I wanted to go wild with them. (Actually there were several reasons, but I can talk about the other ones some other time.) And nothing is perfect in the forest, everything is unruly and in motion and filthy and uncivilized, even, to our eyes, bizarre.
How lucky I am, then, to have had The Extinction of Irena Rey reviewed by Malcolm Forbes, who brilliantly summarizes everything I hoped to achieve when I set out to write this book. Forbes is famous for his brilliant reviews, of course, which he has written for The Economist, The Wall Street Journal, The Times Literary Supplement, The Los Angeles Review of Books, and lots and lots of other publications. He is an incredible reader, and he is uniquely capable of transmitting both the intellectual and the emotional experience of reading to the readers of his reviews.
How overjoyed I am to read and reread Forbes’ encapsulation of The Extinction:
“Croft subverts expectations with a blackly comic, fiercely inventive drama that explores the cult of celebrity and the art of translation (an art this critically acclaimed, award-winning translator has mastered) while spotlighting disparate individuals working together and falling apart.”
Forbes is such a beautiful writer I almost forgot, on my first read, that these words even pertained to mine. And I love that Forbes says the book “is powered by rambunctious energy and packed with quirks and anomalies.” I love this! It reminds me that, before I was buried under two screeching, hopping toddlers, I, too, was rambunctious once!
And there is everything he says about translation:
“Does Alexis have the right to “civilize” Irena’s text by making amendments? Do translations “adulterate” their originals? At one point, Emi declares how important translators are — “how we mattered, and how we dissolved, which came to the same, like the horizon at sea.” Elsewhere she notes ruefully that “Irena’s works were eternal, but our translations were no more enduring than socks.””
This makes me feel like I’m strolling with an old friend whose work I admire—there are so many ideas that are important to me here, and they are so perfectly, gorgeously encapsulated, the hundred thousand words of the novel boiling down to just this paragraph of his.
“Like her 2019 memoir, “Homesick,” Croft’s novel is interlarded with beguiling photos. They add to the display of creativity on show — a frequently dizzying display, which leaves the reader both disoriented and exhilarated.”
The dizziness and disorientation Forbes mentions in his conclusion are integral parts of The Extinction of Irena Rey; it makes me happy that he felt them, and I can feel (and I hope that you’ll feel) his exhilaration across the whole of the review.
I know no one writes reviews of reviews, and this will probably be the only one I’ll ever write, but I loved and admired this so much, in addition to feeling so honored and understood, that I thought the occasion deserved more than just a private celebration with my cats (who are also, alas, unmoved) or a squawk into the void of X, devourer of exclamation marks.
Thank you to Malcolm Forbes for the incredible care you took with my book, and thank you to The Washington Post. And thank you to my characters, out in the world on their own now:
“Her translators are a colorful bunch, particularly Serbian Petra, who swears Irena’s home is haunted, and Alexis from Arkansas, whose English translation of Emi’s book we are reading, and whose catty footnotes are a source of joy.”
(Thank you to all my characters, but I do also especially love Serbian Petra and Alexis from Arkansas. And Alexises everywhere.)