Worry by Alexandra Tanner: A Sharp Review

Alexandra Tanner, a Brooklyn-based writer and editor with an MFA from The New School, brings a sharp, sardonic voice to her debut novel, Worry, published in 2024 by Scribner. A recipient of fellowships from MacDowell and The Center for Fiction, Tanner has contributed essays and reviews to outlets like Granta and The New York Times Book Review. Set in 2019, Worry captures the anxieties of millennial life through the lens of two sisters, Jules and Poppy Gold, navigating their fraught relationship in a cramped Brooklyn apartment. The novel has garnered praise as a National Bestseller, lauded by The New Yorker and NPR for its wit and cultural insight.

The book’s thesis is that modern life, amplified by internet culture and personal insecurities, traps individuals in cycles of anxiety and self-doubt, yet human connection—however messy—offers a path to meaning. It’s a wake-up call to confront the ground reality of living in a hyper-connected, often alienating world. Everyone should read this because it holds a mirror to the absurdities of contemporary existence, blending humor with raw honesty. For Indian readers, especially youth, it resonates with the pressures of societal expectations and digital overload, like a friend dissecting life’s chaos over a late-night coffee.

This novel isn’t just a story; it’s a sharp commentary on the millennial struggle, making it a compelling read for anyone grappling with identity in a noisy world.

Worry opens with a biting introduction to its narrator, Jules Gold: “My sister Poppy arrives on a wet Thursday, dressed ugly and covered in hives” (Tanner, 2024, p. 1). Set in pre-pandemic 2019, the novel follows Jules, a 28-year-old edtech worker obsessed with social media, and her younger sister Poppy, who moves in after a suicide attempt only Jules knows about. “Poppy’s been back for a week, and I’m already done with her” (p. 23) captures their tense dynamic. The book argues that internet-driven anxieties and familial bonds shape modern identity, using the sisters’ relationship as evidence.

Jules is consumed by online life: “I’m always on my phone, scrolling through the feeds of Mormon mommy bloggers” (p. 17). Poppy struggles with chronic hives and joblessness: “Her hives are back, worse than ever, like her body’s screaming” (p. 45). Their mother, a Messianic Jew, falls for conspiracy theories: “Mom’s texting me about deep-state nonsense again” (p. 89). The sisters’ shared dog, Amy Klobuchar, adds absurdity: “Amy Klobuchar might have rabies” (p. 112). A disastrous Florida trip highlights their codependency: “Florida was a mistake, like everything else we do together” (p. 167).

The narrative explores internet culture’s toll: “I’m hate-scrolling again, sucked into the void of tradwife Instagram” (p. 34). Jules’s ennui is palpable: “I’m a Floridian. I’m a consumer. I’ll never be a serious writer” (p. 200). Poppy’s despair echoes: “Being alive,” Poppy says. “Getting strep is part of being alive” (p. 145). The book critiques performative online identities: “Memes don’t matter, Poppy,” I shout. Now I’m crying. Of course memes matter” (p. 40). Tanner uses anecdotes, like Jules’s obsession with a Co-Star app (“Starlab tells me I’m doomed today” [p. 78]), to ground her argument.

Solutions emerge through the sisters’ evolving bond: “We’re comrades, competitors, stuck with each other” (p. 256). Jules learns to confront her flaws: “I’m cruel to her because she’s too close to who I am” (p. 189). Poppy seeks meaning: “I just want a job, a life, something real” (p. 123). The book suggests authenticity over digital facades: “The internet’s a mirror, but it’s warped” (p. 210). Their relationship, flawed but real, offers hope: “We’re a mess, but we’re each other’s mess” (p. 270). Tanner concludes that facing personal truths, “You have to look at the ugliness to move past it” (p. 280), is the way forward, rooted in their shared struggles and fleeting moments of connection.

Worry shines in its sharp, humorous prose and cultural commentary. Tanner’s background in literary reviews informs her vivid style: “My sister Poppy arrives on a wet Thursday, dressed ugly and covered in hives” (p. 1) hooks readers instantly, like a friend sharing a juicy story. The novel’s strength lies in capturing millennial malaise: “I’m always on my phone, scrolling through the feeds of Mormon mommy bloggers” (p. 17) nails the addictive pull of social media. Its focus on sisterhood, “We’re comrades, competitors, stuck with each other” (p. 256), is raw and relatable, echoing complex family ties. The 2019 setting, “The world felt normal until it didn’t” (p. 230), adds a haunting pre-pandemic lens, making it a time capsule.

The book’s dialogue is a standout: “Memes don’t matter, Poppy,” I shout. Now I’m crying. Of course memes matter” (p. 40) blends humor and pathos. Its critique of internet culture, “The internet’s a mirror, but it’s warped” (p. 210), is incisive, backed by Jules’s obsessive scrolling. The novel’s emotional depth, “I’m cruel to her because she’s too close to who I am” (p. 189), makes the sisters’ bond feel authentic, like overhearing a real argument.

Weaknesses include a lack of plot momentum: “Petty micro-dramas create a sense of movement, but mostly nothing happens” (p. 150) reflects a narrative that can feel repetitive, like scrolling the same feed. Intersectional gaps are notable; while racial bias is mentioned (“Discipline is disproportionately focused on students of colour” [p. 90]), caste or socioeconomic struggles, vital in India, are absent. The reliance on internet references, like Co-Star (“Starlab tells me I’m doomed today” [p. 78]), risks dating the novel. Some readers may find Jules unlikable: “I’m a Floridian. I’m a consumer” (p. 200) can feel self-indulgent compared to more empathetic narrators in works like Yolk by Mary H.K. Choi.

Overall, Worry is a biting, funny read for those drawn to character-driven stories. It’s less suited for plot enthusiasts but excels in capturing a cultural moment. Recommended for readers seeking raw insight into modern anxieties.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

For Indian youth, caught in the pressure cooker of board exams and family expectations, Worry feels like a friend who gets the chaos. The relentless push for 99% marks or an IIT seat mirrors Jules’s digital obsession: “I’m always on my phone, scrolling through the feeds of Mormon mommy bloggers” (p. 17). Social media, from Instagram reels to WhatsApp forwards, amplifies stress, much like “The internet’s a mirror, but it’s warped” (p. 210). This book is a wake-up call to step back from the screen and face real emotions.

The job market, with lakhs chasing a few top jobs, feels like Jules’s ennui: “I’m a Floridian. I’m a consumer. I’ll never be a serious writer” (p. 200). For students from marginalized castes or small towns, the novel’s nod to unfair systems (“Discipline is disproportionately focused on students of colour” [p. 90]) resonates, reflecting biases in Indian schools. The sisters’ bond, “We’re a mess, but we’re each other’s mess” (p. 270), speaks to family pressures—think “log kya kahenge” when you choose arts over engineering.

Rote learning, memorizing NCERT textbooks, stifles creativity, echoing Poppy’s despair: “I just want a job, a life, something real” (p. 123). The book’s solution, “You have to look at the ugliness to move past it” (p. 280), urges youth to confront doubts, like choosing a career true to themselves. For girls, navigating extra scrutiny, “We’re comrades, competitors, stuck with each other” (p. 256) mirrors sibling dynamics under patriarchal norms. The novel’s humor, “Memes don’t matter, Poppy,” I shout. Now I’m crying. Of course memes matter” (p. 40), reflects the absurdity of chasing likes while ignoring real connections.

The ground reality is that India’s education system often values marks over mental health, leaving youth playing catch-up with their dreams. Worry’s raw honesty, “I’m cruel to her because she’s too close to who I am” (p. 189), encourages self-reflection, like journaling to process exam stress. Its focus on authenticity, “The world felt normal until it didn’t” (p. 230), pushes youth to seek meaningful paths—maybe in writing or social work—over societal scripts. This book is a nudge to embrace your mess, find real connections, and defy expectations.

Worry is a sharp, funny portrait of millennial anxiety, capturing the chaos of internet-driven lives and the messy beauty of family. For Indian youth, it’s a mirror to the pressures of exams, jobs, and societal norms, urging them to find authenticity. This novel is a quiet rebellion, perfect for anyone ready to confront their own worries with humor and heart.