I DIED ON A TUESDAY: THE TROUBLE WITH THINKING YOU KNOW THE TRUTH | LADY TULIP

Hello Dolls & Gents, 

Some stories keep you guessing. Others let you believe you've figured everything out, only to remind you how little you actually know.

For a short video review: 

https://youtube.com/shorts/J3s_59VwOPk?si=flyxWKN36O6m0s2w

For a more detailed review: 

I recently finished I Died on a Tuesday by Jane Corry, and I have been thinking about the peculiar satisfaction of being right about something and still managing to be completely caught off guard.

It's a bit of an oxymoron, really.

How does one predict the trajectory of a story, watch those predictions gradually materialize, and still find themselves gasping at the pages?

Apparently, Jane Corry knows exactly how.

The book is something of a slow burn, although calling it that feels slightly unfair because it was also, quite undeniably, a page-turner. It follows three seemingly separate lives: Janie, Robbie and Vanessa, each carrying their own memories, secrets and versions of the truth surrounding an incident that happened twenty years ago.

From fairly early on, I understood that these three stories would eventually intersect. That much felt inevitable. But knowing there would be a connection and understanding the nature of that connection were two entirely different things.

So, naturally, I spent a good portion of the book playing detective.

I was collecting seemingly insignificant details, mentally bookmarking conversations, questioning certain behaviors and trying to fill in the gaps between what I was being told and what I suspected was deliberately being withheld.

And that's where I think Corry's storytelling becomes particularly clever.

As readers, we have this rather amusing tendency to believe that the information presented to us is all the information there is. We meet a character, learn a little about their circumstances, understand their motivations (or think we do), and begin making judgements.

Except people aren't quite so conveniently packaged. And neither are the people in this book.

Corry allows her characters to reveal themselves gradually. Their introductions are hardly their complete identities. Their circumstances become more complicated, their motivations acquire new meaning, and things that initially appeared straightforward begin to look rather different with the benefit of context.

It made me think about how confidently we form opinions about people, even in real life, while being completely oblivious to the chapters of their lives we haven't been allowed to read.

There is something rather humbling about that.

For me, chapter 24 was when the exposition really began to pick up its pace. Until then, I was interested, but from that point onwards, I found myself becoming increasingly invested in the details.

One thing I appreciated was the structure. The book is made up of several relatively short chapters, which made returning to earlier information surprisingly easy. It also meant that the story never felt particularly exhausting to navigate, despite the multiple perspectives and the considerable amount of information being introduced.

There is an almost rhythmic quality to the storytelling. A little revelation here, an unanswered question there, and just when you think you have a reasonably comfortable understanding of what's happening, another chapter comes along to complicate everything.

And then there's Vanessa.

Oh, Vanessa! My BITCH!...BABY!!

Without giving too much away, I thought her character was particularly fascinating.

Of the three central narratives, hers was the one that interested me most from a psychological perspective. Her internal monologues are such a dynamic part of her characterization, and I think Corry uses them rather effectively to illustrate the lengthy, exhausting cycle she finds herself caught in.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from constantly having to negotiate with your own thoughts. From going over the same events, questioning your own judgement, rationalizing someone else's behavior and attempting to make sense of circumstances that never quite allow you the luxury of peace.

Vanessa's narrative captures something of that experience.

And what I found especially interesting was how her account, however one-sided, could still feel entirely believable.

Because that is the thing about personal truths, isn't it?

They don't necessarily have to be complete to feel convincing. Sometimes, the version of events we tell ourselves becomes the only version we know how to live with. 

The tone of voice to the monologues that also served as a moral compass was creatively cathartic. 

I also appreciated how Corry navigated the moral complexities of both her male and female characters. Nobody exists entirely outside the consequences of their decisions, and yet those consequences are not always experienced equally.

There were certain revelations surrounding Vanessa that activated every last ounce of my feminine rage.

I won't get into the specifics because I genuinely wouldn't want to deprive another reader of discovering those things for themselves. But I will say that Corry seems to possess a rather peculiar understanding of certain female experiences. The kind that are difficult to articulate without sounding as though you're exaggerating. The kind that can appear almost insignificant when observed individually, but become deeply unsettling when understood as a pattern.

She captures those nuances with an uncomfortable degree of familiarity.

And perhaps that's why Vanessa's story stayed with me. Beyond the question of what happened, there was the much more complicated question of what someone learns to accept, excuse or endure.

Now, if the first half of the book was a slow burn, the final stretch was an entirely different experience.

Somewhere around chapter 70, Jane Corry apparently decided that I had enjoyed enough peace.

Because every freaking chapter after that seemed determined to leave me gasping.

Sometimes it was because a prediction I'd made turned out to be true. Other times, a seemingly unimportant detail suddenly found its place in the larger picture. And occasionally, a character's story developed in a direction that was so far beyond what I had anticipated that I genuinely had to sit with the information for a moment.

It was rather entertaining.

There is a specific satisfaction that comes from watching a story connect its own dots, especially when you've spent so much time trying to connect them yourself.

And I think Corry handled that beautifully.

What I appreciated most about the ending, however, was its generosity.

In stories involving multiple characters and interconnected narratives, it can be frustrating when the central mystery is resolved but everyone else's circumstances are simply abandoned.

Here, Corry seemed determined to account for almost everyone. I do think the central villain's point of view was somewhat lacking in the storytelling. Although, the consistent omission of that particular tale did not minimize the importance of that character or the gravity of their actions in the background of the overall storytelling. 

The final chapters gave a sense of closure to the individual stories, allowing the reader to understand what became of the people whose lives had been so intricately woven together. Not necessarily because every outcome was perfect, but because their stories were given the consideration they deserved.

I closed the book feeling satisfied.

Entertained, certainly. A little emotionally exhausted, perhaps. But satisfied.

And yet, there was one little thought that refused to leave me alone.

Janie.

For a character whose experience is so central to the story, her narration raises some fascinating questions about memory, perception and the reliability of the person telling us what happened.

We spend so much of the book trying to distinguish between what people believe, what they remember and what actually occurred.

And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether I had been too willing to accept certain things simply because they were presented to me as someone else's lived experience.

Which brings me back to the rather amusing irony of this entire reading experience.

I spent so much time trying to determine which parts of the story were true that, by the end, I found myself questioning something much more fundamental.

Did Janie actually die on a Tuesday?

Thanks to🍋 for the cutest reading journal.

Perhaps that's the final little trick Jane Corry has played on me. Or perhaps I've simply spent too long-playing detective.

Either way, I had a wonderful time reading this book.

And if a story can give me several satisfying revelations, a little feminine rage, an ending that feels thoughtfully assembled, and one final question to carry around long after I've turned the last page, I'd say it has done its job rather well.

If you have read the book, let me know your thoughts.