In order to consider Glaciers, Portlander and former Powell’s bookslinger Alexis M. Smith’s first novel, we must first consider what it is not. On the cover, the slender white shoulders of a dressmaker’s dummy peek out from a strapless dress made from scraps of black and white photographs and yellowed letters; on the back, “single,” “twenty-something,” “unrequited love,” “the perfect vintage dress” jump out from the summary. The problem? Glaciers looks like chick lit. But it isn’t.
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