GIRLS THEY WRITE SONGS ABOUT

A deep friendship takes shape and dissolves in New York City.

“Rose and I moved to New York to be motherless,” begins narrator Charlotte as she sweeps us into the idealism of her 20s in the late-1990s New York literary scene. She and Rose meet in the office of a music magazine where Rose—intense, ambitious, erratic—works in the staff writer position for which Charlotte—meticulous, careful, self-effacing—was passed over. What begins as professional and sexual jealousy morphs into an intimate friendship as the two bond over their commitment to independence and artistic integrity. Alcohol-soaked parties, abortions, marriages, affairs, a divorce, a death in the family, secrets, and betrayals all ensue, related with such cleareyed precision and honesty that only on the rarest of occasions does it tip over into sentimentality. Charlotte’s narration rings true for the discerning writer and editor she is; the prose is razor-sharp and utterly devoid of clutter. Though as a person she drifts and waffles—“What did we want?” is a common refrain throughout—as a storyteller, she never loses focus. Motherless though Charlotte had once aspired to be, as her 20s turn into her 30s and early 40s, the question of motherhood creeps in, whether from her surroundings in stroller-laden Park Slope, from friendships that drift when children arrive, or from a confrontation with the child of a married man with whom she’s had an affair. With deftness and candor, Bauer tells a moving and thoughtful story of how desire and ambition change over time and how to make sense of the messiness of carving out a path and life of one’s own.

A smart and beautifully rendered portrait of two women’s lives.