I'm a book snob. I've tried to work past this, tried not to judge people by the books that they read, but I've discovered that my condition is chronic and not subject to reason.

The symptoms aren't visible, but are nasty nonetheless: On the rare occasion that I see someone reading the latest work by Stuart Dybek or Edwidge Danticat, I feel a warm glow of approval in my heart, and when I see someone reading a book by, say, Candace Bushnell, I have to repress myself from smirking and remarking, "Gee, it must be tough to read when so much of your brain is devoted to thoughts of shoe acquisition." I compulsively divide writers into those who are worthy of reading and those who aren't.

Somehow, Terry McMillan ended up in the latter category, but after reading her new The Interruption of Everything, I can say that she's now a writer whose work I'd be proud to read. In public. Even if I were in full view of Jonathan Franzen and the editorial board of The New York Review of Books.

All I knew about McMillan before reading this novel was that at least one of her books featured a middle-aged woman who travels to a tropical isle where the ministrations of the young, bare-chested Taye Diggs allow her to get her groove back. I expected to read a lot of declarative sentences that began with: "Girl!" And yes, there were a few of those here, but the novel proved original, surprising, involving and not dumb in the least.

The Interruption of Everything concerns a very turbulent few weeks in the life of Marilyn Grimes, the 44-year-old wife of a successful architect and mother of three grown children, some of whom occasionally pop by, demanding that she whip up elaborate dinners.

She's also a part-time employee of a craft store, Heavenly Creations, the chauffeur and confidante of her live-in mother-in-law, Arthurine, and the caretaker of several others: her elderly mother, her drug-addicted adopted sister and her sister's ill-mannered and grammatically challenged children.

And yes, because of the demands of caring for all these people, Marilyn's groove has unfortunately gone missing and it is, indeed, essential that she get it back, but not in the way that you're thinking. There's no cocoa butter involved.

Marilyn's ordeal begins when she finds herself increasingly short-tempered and out of sorts and suspects that she could be perimenopausal. As her friend Paulette sagely counsels, "Girl, you need to hurry up and have that test so that you can be restored back to full sanity."

Apart from physical symptoms, Marilyn also feels a vague longing for greater purpose in her life, as she says, "I just can't believe that I grew up and became one of those women who got married and had kids and forgot all about my personal dreams." Marilyn narrates the novel in a frank, chatty, funny style, and her voice is so winning that it's impossible not to root for her.

Marilyn visits the doctor, expecting to be told that she's undergoing "the change." Instead, she learns that she's pregnant, because as the doctor puts it, "sometimes there's one last hurrah left." But that's only the beginning of her emotional roller-coaster ride: In quick succession, Marilyn's husband's behavior becomes erratic (he buys a motorcycle and leaves clues that he may be having an affair), she learns that her unmarried daughter is also pregnant, one of her college-age twin sons announces a surprise visit home with a new girlfriend and the other declares that he wants to change his major and become a musician.

As if nuclear family issues weren't enough, Arthurine increasingly relies on Marilyn to drive her to dates with her fellow octogenarian suitor. And Marilyn discovers that her mother's memory is deteriorating and that her deadbeat adopted sister didn't let her know this because she relies on their mother's Social Security check.

Marilyn does what many characters featured in vapid chick-lit books would do in her position: She decides to get a new hairstyle. But the scene in which Marilyn ventures to an apartment to have hair extensions braided into her hair is so fresh and fascinating, the genre conventions of chick lit have nothing to do with it.

On the recommendation of her friend Paulette, Marilyn heads deep "in the 'hood" to the filthy apartment of a six-foot, 300-pound woman named Orange, who lives with her equally sizable sister, Blue, and a passel of fatherless children. The chaotic, bizarre day Marilyn spends having her hair braided by Orange makes for a chapter like none I have ever read, and reveals a remarkable subculture rarely depicted in literature.

And why hasn't it been? As a neighborhood stoop-sitter tells Marilyn when she asks where the woman who braids hair lives, "Hell, just pick one. Everybody braid hair now days."

Dozens of plot twists later, McMillan provides The Interruption of Everything with a satisfying, nuanced conclusion, and leaves me with one of my own: My book snobbishness may have protected me from wasting time on literary disasters, but it's also prevented me from enjoying the work of McMillan, who shouldn't be judged by the film adaptations of her novels. And if she decides to write an entire book set in the hair-braiding underworld, sign me up.

Jenny Shank's short stories have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review and CutBank, and one was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Boulder.