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You can blame suburbia-bashing on Jackie Susann: Whiling away lonely hours in a hotel room this week, I succumbed and bought Shadow of the Dolls by Rae Lawrence. Shadow is the sequel to Valley of the Dolls, a novel so influential, I believe it spawned popular culture. Valley's author, Jacqueline Susann, apparently had written a first draft of the sequel, and, mysteriously, it was found recently, 30 years or so after her death, and awarded to Rae Lawrence, after something of a star search, to buff into a novel. Lawrence, who has written one sex and shopping bestseller herself, moved the sequel to the last days of the 20th century, not 1975. The dilemmas, therefore, are ours, or sort of ours. Anne Wells, the patrician supermodel, leaves her cheating husband and becomes a Diane Sawyer type; Neely flops around like Liza Minnelli, all Vegas, drugs, diets and plastic surgery; and Jennifer, who died at the end of Valley, gives us a neat surprise at the end. They all take lots of pills (dolls), but in Shadow, it's an afterthought. They take pills, of course they do, everyone does, don't they? Valley, I suspect, is one of the reasons that many sneer at the word suburb. It is the same sneer you see when people say consumerism. Or Wal-mart. Or Costco, or anything to do with mall shopping, in fact. Suburbs are supposed to be featureless places where people are the same, and all they do is gorge themselves on tat from the mall, barbecue and watch TV on their giant unsophisticated entertainment units. When suburbanites strike it rich, they go on a taste purification binge that immediately leads to more upscale shopping, a flat in the Trump Tower, across the street from Tiffany's and Bergdorfs, and if they're lucky a feature in a shelter magazine or Vanity Fair, whereupon we worship them. Secretly perhaps, but it is worship. Much of modern literature spends its effort bashing suburbia. Where would Paul Auster, Jay McInerney, Cormac McCarthy, Richard Ford, and all their associates be, unless they could decry the products of ordinary people, and middle America? Nowhere I'd say, and all of rock music, much modern design, and all the so-called vibrant life of our inner cities would not exist, without suburbia as backdrop, spur and contrast, and the gritty urban life as ideal. Where would Iggy Pop be without the suburbs? Lou Reed? Remember New Wave? All about the ghastly sameness of the suburbs. Jackie Susann started it. It wasn't that Cheever and Mailer didn't write about the stultifying sameness of the suburbs, but they were nowhere near as widely read as Susann. Even hippie chicks read Valley of the Dolls. Everyone did; it was as much a publishing phenomenon as Fanny Hill, plus it founded the sex and shopping genre. The influence of its author demonstrates the awful power of popular culture. Susann, who wrote several novels after Valley of the Dolls, was such a vigorous promoter of her "work," that, barely able to dress herself, she was doing TV talk shows three weeks before her death. Her "work" was important; she was the person most responsible for bringing women from the sticks into the big city to "make it," and have a glamorous life. Valley, 35 years on, is a cult. The story is simple. Anne Wells, a patrician WASP from a small town in New England, comes to New York, eventually makes it as a model. Neely from the trailer park has an astonishing voice and becomes a superstar, and Jennifer, an insanely beautiful model, who everyone loves, dies of breast cancer. They all have a lot of sex, and practise infidelity in glamourous locations; they get offered huge amounts of money for various things, and there is a lot of restaurant, hotel and clothing description. They're all betraying their souls: Anne agonizes, Neely is a diva bitch, and Jennifer only wants babies, not all these men throwing jewellery and themselves at her feet. This was a requisite bow to a fast disappearing morality, but essentially, their lives looked so much more fun than babies, husband and church. Women read it to learn how to be bad. This was adventure that was possible, adventure a pretty girl from nowhere could have. You could lacquer your hair into a raven sweep and find exciting men to have fun with. You could endure mishaps and come out looking good and embark on a new career. You could be careless, follow your own pleasure, not worry about reputation, and take narcotics when you got upset. Still the same, isn't it? Women know this stuff is all a game, that you can be promiscuous, take lots of drugs, have abortions, get divorced, end up in rehab, find a new husband, and still bounce back. Can't we? Perhaps. If we're smart enough. If we get out soon enough. The only women I know who lived this kind of a life, with tons of money, modelling, presents and rock stars in love with them, flown to parties on yachts in St. Tropez, live quietly these days, grateful for quiet, and peace. Their lives are almost suburban. I don't think they'd choose the Valley path again. Someone should write that novel.

© 2004 Elizabeth Nickson The material at this website is available only for personal non-commercial purposes, and it may not be reproduced without permission.