From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Sassy Southern belle Georgia has a lot of secrets: a rotation of gentleman callers with unique sexual needs, a mother with a tenuous hold on reality, and a lucrative (if dodgy) business of selling at a huge mark-up the folk art quilts she buys and passes off as her own creations. But then 9/11 comes along, Georgia's world of naughty innocence is changed forever, and all the plates she once spun so effortlessly in midair come crashing down: her illegitimate black son shows up on her doorstep; her best friend and town mayor, Krystal, loses her job; her demented mom and drunken brother become increasingly errant; and one of her boyfriends—a spiteful preacher—has an unfortunate attack of conscience and intends to publicly confess his affair and simultaneously condemn poor Georgia to hell. Childress (One Mississippi) is sassy magnolia lit's Truman Capote—sharply observant, unrelentingly honest, and downright hilarious—and his Georgia peach is the freshest bad girl to rise from the South since Scarlett O'Hara. (Feb.)
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Perhaps no region of America is caricaturized through stereotypes as thoroughly and nakedly as the South. In Georgia Bottoms, Childress indulges these stereotypes more than he challenges them. Here the reader finds the hypocritical Baptist preacher, the gossipy congregation, and the femme fatale in impeccable dress. It is awfully hot outside, and the townspeople could not be politer. Of course, everyone is talking behind everyone else�s back. This is problematic, as the story�s conflict comes from the protagonist�s struggle to juggle a coterie of paramours, one of whom�the reader discovers early�is the guilt-stricken preacher. All of this can be more cute than entertaining, especially in dialogue, where one finds few surprises. Childress is perhaps most charming between jokes; occasionally, in drawing a simple setting, he dazzles: �The old town seemed suddenly lovely: long green lawns stretched out under live oaks, sprinklers chattering, flinging arcs of bright glitter. Some of the clapboard cottages were as old as the live oaks. Kids made skateboard racket on the broken sidewalks.� --Kevin Clouther