Falling Under

By Danielle Younge-Ullman

REVIEWS

From NYT Bestselling author Caroline Leavitt, for Dame Magazine
"Fierce, erotic and absolutely fearless, this riveting debut tunnels into the psyche of a young artist who is as self-destructive as she is talented. To transform her career and have any sort of shot at happiness, she must grapple with thorny secrets from her past and open herself up to the terror of love. Shocking and moving, Falling Under is as edgy as a razor blade and unlike anything you’ve ever read before."

From Kim Alexander for XM Radio Fiction Nation
"Here's a debut novel that delivers, with a narrator who's afraid of just about everything except revealing herself on paper — there's a real element of 'I shouldn't be seeing this' in Younge-Ullman's work. The story of Mara, a talented painter so beset by her demons and fears that can she can barely leave her house, is set alongside the story of Mara's childhood, and I got the rare experience of both plunging forward with the story and stepping back to applaud the technical skill and bravery of the execution. Extreme, and extremely well done!"

From The National Post of Canada
“Let’s cut to the chase: Toronto writer Danielle Younge-Ullman’s Falling Under is one of the most compelling debut novels I have read in a long time. It is gutsy, emotional, sexually charged and, because of its second-person narrative style, unremittingly intense.

Mara Foster is a screwed-up young visual artist living in Toronto. An only child, Mara was severely affected by her parents’ nasty divorce when she was little, and as an adult she tries to carry on relationships with both of them. Her mother, a successful career woman, can’t understand why Mara bothers with her slovenly, alcoholic dad. Mara too often plays parent to her parents rather than the other way around, and the strain is catching up with her. She suffers from agoraphobia (though she keeps denying the term) and other deep-rooted anxieties.

Her relationships with men are equally fraught and she carries a huge burden of guilt . . . and fears she will never be able to have another serious love affair. She has shut down her painting as well as her heart, and has settled for creating safe geometric pieces for furniture stores instead of expressing her emotions on the canvas.

All this changes when she meets Hugo and falls in love with him. The big plot question, of course, is whether Mara will get over her past and be able to enjoy a future with Hugo. How Younge-Ullman handles Mara’s journey is key. The story could have turned into something intolerably trite, especially since Younge-Ullman’s first attempt at a book was, by her own admission, a “chick lit” novel, and there are definitely elements of the genre here. However this is not necessarily to the book’s detriment. Because Younge-Ullman has talent (her experience as an actor and playwright serves her well too), she is able to take from chick lit what she finds useful, and then writes her guts out, hurtling ahead, pedal to the floor. The result is a gripping story, crackling with energy. It is also raw and visceral and passionate, and you get the feeling when you read it that the writer is totally unafraid. The fact that Younge-Ullman can maintain this pace and level of urgency is a major point to her credit, though it might well make some readers uncomfortable.

The other aspect that makes the story credible is Mara’s background, about which the author spends a lot of time filling us in. Without the knowledge of Mara’s history, her present would seem too melodramatic to ring true.

What I admire about this book, aside from its look-you-in-the-eye honesty, is what it says about the creation of art: the artist’s relationship to the work, the work’s relationship to life and (perhaps most significant) the process involved in bridging the two.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danielle Younge-Ullman
• Release date: Oct 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466009561

Danielle Younge-Ullman

Danielle is the author of the YA novel, EVERYTHING BEAUTIFUL IS NOT RUINED (Viking Children’s, USA/Razorbill, Canada, Feb 21, 2017), as well as LOLA CARLYLE’S 12 STEP ROMANCE (Entangled Teen/Macmillan May 2015), and the adult novel, FALLING UNDER, (Penguin/Plume, 2008). Danielle also published a short story called “Reconciliation” in MODERN MORSELS, a McGraw-Hill Anthology for young adults in 2012, and her one-act play, 7 Acts of Intercourse, debuted at Toronto’s SummerWorks Festival in 2005.Danielle lives in an old house in Toronto that’s constantly being renovated, with her husband and two daughters.For more information, visit www.danielleyoungeullman.com or find Danielle on Twitter: @DanielleYUllman, or on her Facebook author page.

Book preview

Praise for Falling Under

"Falling Under is one of the most compelling debut novels I have read in a long time. It is gutsy, emotional, sexually charged and unremittingly intense. Younge-Ullman writes her guts out, hurtling forward, pedal to the floor. The result is a gripping story, crackling with energy." The National Post

"Fierce, erotic and absolutely fearless, this riveting debut tunnels into the psyche of a young artist who is as self-destructive as she is talented. To transform her career and have any sort of shot at happiness, she must grapple with thorny secrets from her past and open herself up to the terror of love. Shocking and moving, Falling Under is as edgy as a razor blade and unlike anything you’ve ever read before." NYT Bestselling author Caroline Leavitt for Dame Magazine

Extreme, and extremely well done! Kim Alexander for XM Radio Fiction Nation

"An astonishing debut novel reminiscent of Janet Fitch's White Oleander. Younge-Ullman has a talent for turning the shadows of life into a thing of beauty, almost poetry." Curled Up With A Good Book

Hard-hitting and explosive, with a raw energy that left me breathless. GoodHousekeeping.com

A story told with great feeling and compassionate attention to how a sensitive person can find herself alienated from everything she needs to feel whole. Feast Magazine

"Part coming of age, part artistic exploration, part love story, Falling Under is a layered and assured debut." Canadian Booksellers Magazine

"Falling Under tugged at my heart and settled in my bones down to the marrow." The Rose & Thorn Literary Ezine

FALLING UNDER

A novel

Danielle Younge-Ullman

Copyright © 2011 by Danielle Younge-Ullman

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Danielle Younge-Ullman.

This book is dedicated to Michael.

Table of Contents

Praise for Falling Under

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Acknowledgements

Author Information

Author Endorsements

Chapter 1

Ask Santa for a new bike, and you might get it.

But Daddy might leave on Christmas Day.

When you reach out to touch your shiny new bike, Mommy might start yelling at Daddy about how dare he spend their money on a new bike and how you’re only five and what do you need a new bike for anyway?

You play your invisible trick—the one where you pretend you are a small rock—and hope that no one will notice your heart thumping so loud and your ears burning and your eyes blinking again and again.

Daddy yells back at Mommy and soon they are yelling in each other’s faces.

You take your hand off the bike.

You wish, instead of asking for a bike, you’d asked Santa for no more yelling and no more breaking things and slamming of doors. You wish you’d asked for Daddy not to walk out the door and say he’s never coming back and stay away until Mommy calls and begs him to come home like she has four times already.

The yelling gets louder and the words get meaner and then it all stops. A blast of freezing air gets in when Daddy opens the front door. You shiver and the door slams shut with Daddy on the other side.

In the long silence before Mommy starts her crying and her kicking at the door, you think about what she said about the bike.

How come Dad and Mom had to pay Santa?

Oh.

It doesn’t matter what you asked Santa, you realize, because there is no Santa. There’s no Santa, and Daddy’s not coming back this time. Somehow you know it.

Chapter 2

When all else fails I go to Erik.

Tonight, all else has failed.

He answers the door, eyes bloodshot, unsurprised. And then the hitch in my breathing that comes, that always comes with Erik.

Can’t sleep? he says.

No.

He steps aside to let me in, shuts the door behind me, slides the bolts, and chains the locks.

Drink? he says.

I refuse, as always.

There is no bar, just a huddle of bottles on top of a giant, long-broken stereo speaker. He pours himself a Lagavulin, neat, as always.

You painting? he says.

All day.

Good.

You breaking the law?

Not at the moment, he says with the ghost of a smirk.

The couch is clear of its usual technological detritus. I follow him there, and sit.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should never have been here. But it was too late years ago, and now it doesn’t matter so much.

We try small talk but soon run out of easy things to say. Our ill beginnings surface quickly, so it’s really better not to converse.

So, he says.

So.

I feel his eyes on me. He knows if I’m here, I’ve done everything I can to still the storm inside, to put all the demons back into their boxes and seal the lids. But sometimes they won’t go. Sometimes my ears are full of screaming, and sometimes, like tonight, the voices are mine.

Erik has them too—demons, voices, nightmares seared on the soul—I knew it the first time I saw him. And sometimes, when there are large, dark spaces inside that you cannot escape, sometimes someone can meet you there, keep you company. Sometimes they can break you out.

I turn my head and let his eyes in. We search, and accept.

There can be no love here; we don’t want it and we don’t have it to give, especially not to each other. No love, but there is something else.

Mara, he says. A question, a command.

Yes.

We both stand.

I know the way to the bedroom, I know his mouth will taste like Scotch. I walk ahead and listen for his footsteps behind me. Just inside the door his arms wrap around my waist. He swivels me around and pulls me closer. I let him.

I come here because I know Erik will drag me to the edge. He will drag me there, push me over, and then leap after me, to a place beyond pain, beyond loss, beyond the things that haunt us in the empty spaces of the night.

When all else fails, I have this.

Chapter 3

Spring comes.

You want to ride your bike, but maybe if you don’t, then Daddy will come home and Mommy will get out of bed in the mornings and this time nobody will shout or throw hot cups of coffee at each other.

You walk to kindergarten and hope, every day, to come back to a house with both Mommy and Daddy in it.

Then Mommy notices you not riding the bike.

We could have used that money, she says. We can’t just go buying bikes that we don’t ride. We’ll end up in the poor house.

Is that where Daddy went?

I told you not to mention his name.

Sorry, Mom.

She will never understand why you’re not riding the bike, and if she did it would only make her cry, so the next day you get on it and ride down the block. As soon as you’re out of sight, you get off. You hope Daddy will understand that you had to ride it, just a little bit, and will still come back. He doesn’t.

In June, Grandma and Grandpa come to visit. You tell Grandma about Daddy being gone and Mommy sick and crying every day.

I know, sweetheart, Grandma says, and pats your shoulder. But it will all be okay, you’ll see.

You don’t think so. In case she doesn’t know, you tell her about Santa too.

Grandma looks at you, very serious, and tells you about God, who is like Santa, only without the presents and the red suit.

He gives more important presents, Grandma says, like listening to your problems and helping you out when things are hard.

You’re not sure about this, but you start talking to God sometimes. You ask Him to stop Mommy crying and eventually she does, only now she’s grumpy instead and has to go to work and comes home after your bedtime. You realize you liked it better before, because even if she was crying, at least she was home.

You also talk to God about Daddy coming back and you practice being small so you won’t bother him when he does. Grandma promised that God would answer your prayers, but when you turn six and Christmas comes again with no Daddy, you start to doubt.

Then one day in February, like a miracle, he’s back.

Only he smells funny and you have to visit him in an ugly place downtown. And he hardly ever smiles, and doesn’t talk, except to ask you why you don’t eat very much and why you’re such a quiet little thing. He doesn’t realize that you understand about money and you understand about mess and noise. You don’t need much and you can be very small and quiet. You hardly ride the bike and you’ve never asked Santa for anything else.

You sit next to him on his stinky couch every other weekend while he watches television and smokes cigarettes.

You’re not so sure you like the daddy God sent back and you’re not so sure you like the way He has been answering your prayers in general.

***

I leave Erik sprawled and vulnerable, and steal away into the pre-dawn light.

I’ve never liked seeing him asleep, never wanted to wake up with him, share breakfast, read the newspaper together or whatever it is that people do.

Erik and I are too intense, too different, and the things we have in common are the wrong things. We should never have spoken, never have touched, much less the rest of it.

On my way back across town I ask the taxi to stop so I can get myself a large black coffee.

At home, I stand under the shower and scrub him from my skin. I stay until I am pruny, but I will never be clean.

I am disgusting, pathetic, and weak. But what else is new? I wash my angst down the drain and turn the water off.

In the bedroom, I put on my customary uniform: pants, T-shirt, and cardigan, all black. Every item of clothing I own is black, navy or beige. Everything coordinates with everything else in my closet and each day I put on the next pair of pants in the row, the top T-shirt on the pile, and so on. Simple.

In the kitchen I make more coffee, force down a granola bar, and then walk out the kitchen door to my back-porch-turned-studio. I put on my smock, mix my colors, and sit down to work.

It’s 6 a.m. I start work every day at 6 a.m. If I haven’t slept because I was surfing the net, out late with Bernadette, or getting my brains fucked out by an emotionally damaged computer hacker, tough shit.

Up.

Showered.

Dressed.

Caffeinated.

Working.

Period.

The east-facing windows bring the morning light in threads. Later it will be so bright I will turn my easel backward.

I face the work before me and sigh. I would love to feel I am changing the world. I would love to think my work transfixed people, changed their perceptions of reality, moved them to tears, heroic action…any action.

It might have, once. In the early years of art college, I painted to express the depths of my soul. I wanted to be Frida Kahlo, with maybe a little Jackson Pollock thrown in. I painted like it mattered, like I could create something unique. People who knew about these things thought I had a Future.

Now I paint to soothe. I paint to banish the very emotions I used to channel because somewhere during my final two years, I got jaded and stopped believing—in art, love, happily-ever-after...and mostly in myself. All those feelings became too much for me; they began to burn me up. And so, here I am—far from Frida, or any other kind of greatness.

But I make a living. I crank out circles and squares, colorful geometrics that people buy to match their furniture, shapes with a logic that quiets my mind. Someone might be kind enough to call my paintings Zen and they might be moved to change the position of their couch, but that’s all.

By 4 p.m. I have finished the piece. Sapphire circles intertwine with smaller yellow and purple circles, all floating above a forest of sharp, triangular shapes.

I look at it with the satisfaction that it’s finished, but no other feeling, no opinion on whether or not it’s good. Done is what it is. I’ll call Sal to pick it up, and never think about it again.

Five done, and it’s only mid-October, I say to Sal’s voice mail. Whatever else, you’ve got to admit I’m fast!

There’s a message from Bernadette saying she’s coming over at 5:30. She never asks, just informs me, but she’s one of my few links to the outside world, so I don’t mind. As it is, I have my groceries and my art supplies delivered and payment from Sal comes via direct deposit, so I can hole myself up for weeks if I so desire.

Do you think you might be agoraphobic? Bernadette asked me once.

I shrugged, looked away.

Honestly, do you ever go out when I’m not with you?

Sometimes, I said.

Like when?

I don’t know. Like...when I run out of toothpaste. And I go to Dad’s sometimes.

That doesn’t count, Bernadette said. I’m talking about going out, on purpose, to do things. Social things.

I’m social enough.

Right.

Bee, I’m fine.

If you say so.

Of course, she was right. Not that I’m agoraphobic, but something is wrong with me. Something is wrong and it’s not getting better.

A trip outside, to the world beyond my front door, is fraught with peril for me, especially if I’m alone.

First, I don’t like crowds. Too many colors, too many smells and noises, too much being jostled, poked, looked at. Too many potential lunatics who might be carrying knives, guns, anthrax, who might have little girls locked in their basements, or be carrying the next SARS or avian flu virus.

Whenever I leave the house by myself, my mind assaults me with images of disaster. I see myself falling into manholes, being crushed by a falling building, tripping on concrete stairs, tumbling down. I imagine the doors of vans opening as I walk by and stocking-capped thieves or kidnappers grabbing me, hauling me inside. The van is soundproof and they torture me with pins and matches and don’t even ask for ransom—not that anyone would pay it.

I have a car, but I hate driving it. I just know I could lose control and mow down someone’s cat or dog, or worse, their child. Or I might crash into a telephone pole because the brakes have failed, have been cut. Arms broken, fingers mangled, lungs collapsed, death imminent.

And then there’s skin cancer, an expanding freckle caught too late, one week to live. Bug bites, malaria, smog, second-hand smoke, rabid raccoons, tainted beef.

And then, always, always, the tape plays where I step out in front of a car, a truck, the—

Oh, please not the streetcar.

Yes, the streetcar.

The streetcar going too fast, can’t stop in time, my legs frozen, body seized up, the thunk of metal on flesh, the trajectory of the body, airborne, the sickening sound of a skull cracked open, the smell of blood, the sight of it mixing with oil on the street, with hair, fragments of—

Stopstopstop!

But I see it all. I imagine it all, and know that it is possible. These things happen every day and they could happen to me. The proof is there, in my own life and on the news, which I probably shouldn’t watch.

I watch the news and read three newspapers online daily, and my fears expand outward, touching the people I love, tearing them away in senseless, violent tragedies while I stand, helpless, and watch.

It makes for a tense life.

I did look into agoraphobia. I called a hotline, spoke to a counselor. I agreed to join an agoraphobic support group she was starting, with fifteen others who had similar issues.

They offered to send someone to pick me up for the first meeting, but I declined. On a good day I can drive myself places, on a moderate-to-bad one I prefer a taxi.

I was the only one who showed up.

I don’t think you’re agoraphobic, the counselor said, and looked at the circle of empty chairs. I guess there was a flaw in my plan.

Maybe. So, uh, what do you think is wrong with me?

An anxiety disorder of some kind, she said. But I’m not qualified to diagnose you. You should see a therapist.

I went to see a therapist.

Ego problem, he said.

What?

You think the world revolves around you, that you’ve been singled out for something special by God.

But—

Polluted animus, he said. You need to come twice a week, and I’ll try to clear you.

Sorry?

We’ll regress you and then do separation therapy.

Um...

I sense resistance, I sense confusion. Believe me, that’s the animus, he said.

Right.

Polluted, he said.

Huh.

My giant ego, polluted animus and I went home and never came back.

***

Bernadette rings my doorbell at precisely 5:30. I open the door and she comes in and looks hard at me. She often looks at me like this, presumably making sure I haven’t flaked out, started drinking, lost my mind, etc.

Have I grown an extra set of ears?

Funny, she says. How are you?

Fine.

Good, she says, and then breezes past me into the front room. We’re going out.

Out. I haven’t been anywhere except to Erik’s in over two weeks. He should not be my only reason for contact with the outside world. It will be good for me to go out. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I grimace at Bernadette, which she correctly interprets as a yes.

Get dressed, she says.

I am dressed.

She gives my outfit a disparaging once-over.

Right, I forgot, you’re Banana Republic’s answer to Goth.

You’re looking lovely, I say.

Bernadette is looking lovely, actually, if you discount the bright green furry vest thing she has on. It looks like a psychedelic rat has landed on her chest and died there. Her wavy red bob has been tortured straight, and the rest of her ensemble—lace-up boots, tights, and a short dress—are all in a shade of periwinkle that makes her dark blue eyes seem purple.

Dress, make-up, and knee-high combat boots...uh oh.

Bee? I raise an eyebrow.

I’m over it, she says.

That’s what I was afraid of.

Can’t pine forever.

I hope not, I say. It only lasted three weeks.

It was an intense three weeks, she says.

Sure. So what’s the plan?

We need to stop by the Struggles for Justice and Dignity fundraiser and then—

Oh no! I say. That sounds a lot like the Peace, Justice and Vegetables group.

"No, no. This is Struggles for Justice and Dignity—no peace, no vegetables, totally different gang."

But...

This group is nice.

Yes, but—

And nobody will chuck tomatoes at you, she says.

Promise? I ask. I rub my collarbone and recall being whacked by a juicy beefsteak.

You should never have admitted to eating that hamburger, Bernadette says, and starts to giggle. You were really asking for it.

Hey, I thought those people were about tolerance.

Bee snorts with laughter.

Thanks for the support! I say.

Any time. she says. Oh, can you sign something?

She whips a petition out of her purse and hands it to me. I peruse the page, making sure I agree with the cause, and am not committing myself to painting banners for the Left-Wing Used Book Sale or jogging for European Mobility Week like I did last year. Support the Toronto Humane Society, it says.

Hard to argue with that, I say, and sign my name.

Bernadette’s activism is an inspiration, but sometimes I wish she’d narrow her focus. I sign petitions, write letters to my member of parliament, and donate as much money as I can afford, but some of these organizations are seriously whacked. On top of that, my tolerance for rallies, fundraisers, and the singing of folk songs is nonexistent.

Bernadette is saving the world.

I can barely save myself.

I promise we won’t stay long, she says. She knows I dislike crowds. She doesn’t know they make me want to crawl out of my skin. You can even stay in the car while I pop in.

In the car alone or stuck in a crowd. Great options.

I promise I’ll be, like, two seconds.

I breathe. Okay. I’ll be fine. I’ll be with Bernadette.

And then I’m buying you dinner, and don’t tell me you’ve eaten, because you never do.

I do so.

Whatever you say, Bones.

I wince. I hate that nickname. It’s not my fault I’ve always been skinny, and it’s been years since I was that skinny.

In the bathroom, I pull my long, black hair into a ponytail, do a quick check to make sure I don’t have paint on my face and consider myself ready.

I find Bernadette in the studio, looking at my finished painting.

What? I say. You don’t like it?

It’s fine, she says. It’s good.

I shrug. As long as Sal likes it.

And what if he doesn’t? she says. You get cut off?

Of course not, we have a deal.

What if I wanted to buy a piece from you?

You’d have to buy it from him. You know that.

Humph, she says. I don’t like it, the guy owns you.

Not me, just the work.

She shakes her

Reviews for Falling Under

[katherineowen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

FALLING UNDER is amazing contemporary fiction, but to learn that it is a debut novel for Danielle Younge-Ullman makes it even more special. Younge-Ullman does a fantastic job of creating a broken heroine in Mara Foster. The author portrays Mara's dark world where she "literally" fears the world, everything in it, and herself, most of all. Younge-Ullman deftly introduces readers to Mara's past through effective narration, but not necessarily predictable flashbacks. No. This talented author just takes you there in first person present tense. I love that! I write in this technique as well and appreciate the dedication and intricacy of it. Younge-Ullman also utilizes first person past tense and second person for some of the flashback narration and effectively conveys Mara's pain so well this way. It's beautifully done.Younge-Ullman keeps the story moving and readers guessing as to what has happened in Mara's past relationships, especially with Lucas, that make her so fearful. Readers will be intrigued with the introduction of Erik and the inexplicable tie in their relationship that makes them so dark and needy of one another. The subtext with her best friend Bernadette is also compelling. And, when Mara meets Hugo, it would appear he's set to be the ultimate hero and rescue her, since he appears to serve so well as the calm to the storm that is Mara. It is easy to discern Hugo's love for her early on, but Younge-Ullman avoids the predictable cliche of having Hugo be the one to save her. No. Younge-Ullman leads readers further into Mara's dark past and allows them to really feel her pain for themselves. Readers will come away enlightened as to why Mara's so bent on self-destruction and, perhaps, even comprehend how it could win out. I'll leave it at that.This debut novel, Falling Under, is honest, heartbreaking, at times, yet so satisfying. The writing is amazing and so well done that it reads like a sheet of music. Here's one of my favorite passages: "I feel his eyes on me. He knows if I'm here, I've done everything I can to still the storm inside, to put all the demons back into their boxes and seal the lids. But sometimes they won't go. Sometimes my ears are full of screaming, and sometimes, like tonight, the voices are mine."And this one: "You haven't had his lips pressing onto yours, or heard the deep, low whimper that comes from the back of his throat when your lips move in response. You haven't had him hold your face in his hands and felt him shudder, and no painful, heated ache has rocketed down from your open lips to your tongue and fired along your nerve endings and made you feel like your body was on fire. But now you have. And the world is a different place. Locked together in a tangled embrace, you travel past desire, past time and age and circumstance, past, even, the barriers of body, to a place where you are together, linked in the deepest sense. And for a few timeless moments, you are not alone."Danielle Younge-Ullman is a fantastic writer. And, all I can say is more, more, more!Katherine Owen

[schmadeke · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In Danielle Younge-Ullman's emotionally charged debut novel, Falling Under, readers meet Mara, a twenty-something painter with more than her fair share of problems. In the past, Mara has experienced events and encounters that have left her emotionally scarred and seemingly incabable of having a healthy relationship with anyone. In Mara, Younge-Ullman has created a character that is incredibly raw and vulnerable. Mara's story is told primarily in the first person, with second person narrative interspersed throughout, usually when she is recounting her childhood. There is no omniscient narration here. The reader sees only through Mara's eyes, which means normal physical descriptions of characters and place are few and far between. This only adds to the authenticity of the narrative and frees the reader to step more fully into Mara's life.While Mara was indisputably the star of the story, there were several very well-developed secondary characters, such as her best friend Bernadette, and several of Mara's boyfriends. Her parents were both flawed in their own way. Bitterly divorced since Mara was a child, her father was a mentally ill alcoholic and her mother was cold, distant, and absorbed in her career to the point of neglecting Mara's emotional needs. Still, despite my frustration and disapproval of their parenting choices, they were sympathetic characters for whom I wished eventual redemption. Younge-Ullman has a unique and mesmerizing writing style. It is at once raw and gritty, eloquent and beautiful. Most outstanding is her ability to take the reader inside her character's head and heart, creating a unique and unforgettable reading experience.

[oldblack-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This is Danielle Younge-Ullman's first book apparently. I seem to be at odds with other LibraryThing reviewers in only giving this two stars, and I suppose I can see where they're coming from, but to me this degenerated into pure unredeemed romance as it went on. Actually, as I look back on the beginning, the romantic element was pretty strong right from the start, but it seemed to have a sharper edge that I hoped would carry it through. It didn't.

[lifeisfiction · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I don't even know how to describe this novel, other than I've never experienced anything like it. Mara is truly a unique character and it was easy to understand her emotional state. I hated her mother, if you want to call her that. Though the father was an alcoholic, and a poor excuse for a parent, he still had something to offer.Mara went through a very troubled childhood. She was essentially alone with no guidance other than her negative mother who rarely had a nice thing to say, let alone encourage her and love her unconditionally as a parent should.If you're looking for a truly unique story with an emotionally scared heroine, I recommend Falling Under.I only wish there were a sequel. It would be nice to see how Mara handles adulthood and relationships, and does she sort out her issues?

[yourotherleft_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Love triangles. We love them, we hate them. Falling Under has one, and it's a doozy. Mara Foster is a troubled artist, making a career of producing stock paintings of geometric designs to decorate peoples' offices. She used to paint other things, but other things awaken her emotions, and she's decided that her emotions are better off stifled. Mara is riddled with fears and anxieties that plague her whenever she dares to leave the safe confines of her house. Her parents' acrimonious divorce left a profound mark on her that leaves her terrified to love, so when she meets Hugo and dares to imagine a normal life with a normal guy, it threatens to undo her. Soon, she's painting for real and all that real painting is bringing the demons of her past close to the surface. She flees instead to Erik, the bad boy with baggage, the one she has plenty in common with, including a desire to eschew love for sex that will chase those demons away for a night.Younge-Ullman, according to the author bio, is also a playwright and it shows. Falling Under is filled with fast flowing, excellent dialogue. Mara's past is brought to light in the immediacy of second person narration and easily draws readers' sympathies. There's a plot twist that actually surprises and supporting characters that fill out Mara's story while being their own people. I even liked the love triangle. It was so believable and viable that even I couldn't choose a guy for Mara.

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Mara Foster grew up in a house divided. Her parents divorced. Mara lived with her mother till she couldn’t abide by the rules anymore and her mom sent her to live with her dad. Mara loves both her parents very much. It’s stressful when at sixteen years old you find yourself always cleaning up after your father; who spend more time in jail, because he was drunk then at work. So what do you do when all your mom does is yell at your dad, your father can’t take care of you and your best friend and you can’t relate anymore. You hook up with a thirty four year old struggling artist. When Mara first saw Caleb White’s art work, she was memorized. This was when Mara really understood what her passion was….becoming a famous artist. Now as an adult Mara is dealing with her fears and anxieties of if she will ever be loved. Plus will Mara ever achieve that lustrous career she’s always dreamed of?I found Mara to have a sad life and to be somewhat neurotic. When Mara would have a breakdown she would hide herself away from the rest of the world till she was ready to face everything and everyone face on again. But at the same time I also believed this helped give Mara’s paintings more depth and meaning. Falling Under is Danielle Younge-Ullman first novel. Danielle Younge-Ullman definitely did not hold back. She came out swinging to produce a wonderful and amazing book in Falling Under. I can’t believe Falling Under is Danielle Younge-Ullman first book. It seems like she has been writing for years. I can’t wait to see what Danielle Younge-Ullman comes out with next as I imagine it will be just as good as Falling Under.

[marcejewels · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

From my blogA remarkable dark story told in a beautiful lyrical way, I loved the combination. While reading I wondered how many people we encounter day to day with agoraphobia - extreme or irrational fear of crowded spaces or enclosed public places. Such a worry addiction, overactive mind that makes her paranoid, unbelievable concept. I really enjoyed this story, I found the writing lyrical, a prose style delicious to my ears, it flowed through my soul, very artistic.I enjoyed Mara as the main character, she was three dimensional, had different moods, friends, lovers, past-present-future moments for all of them. For some I think this may be an execution problem as you never knew were the next chapter was going to go but it flowed wonderfully in my opinion, you didn't need to figure out what was going on. Mara used sex to get through the hard times, to take away the pain, how this all comes together at the end.... brilliant.The best part was there is a major mystery twist thrown in, completely caught me off guard and put this novel in a class of its own, I don't know what genre to put it in. This would be a banned YA for sure, there is betrayal, sex, homosexuality, broken marriage, language, it has it all.And the cover is so eye catching, a favourite of mine. I enjoyed the art story lines. Following the journey of a young art student to becoming a brilliant artist through the scary, losing her mind times also.I recommend you try this one, really great read and a debut for the author. And the ending, the last sentence, wow. I love the idea that depending on the reader the person at the end is him or him and then you wonder what life would be like for them, brilliant.