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In Summer in the City, money is more than a resource or symbol of success. According to Elle, it can be a psychological weapon, a barrier to real connection, and a tool of control. Having endured a tough childhood where she watched her mother suffer to get by because of the effect Elle’s wealthy, controlling father had on her life, Elle has a complicated relationship with money where she views it as a tool of control. While she views providing for herself financially as the ultimate freedom, she is judgmental of the wealthy and closed-off to certain romantic prospects, fearing they might use their wealth to control her. The novel interrogates how financial power can both enable and distort relationships, particularly within familial and romantic dynamics. Through the strained ties between Elle and her father and the evolving romance between Elle and Parker, Aster explores how money can be used to assert dominance, erase autonomy, or even mask emotional absence. This theme functions as both personal and cultural critique, especially of the assumptions made about women who date powerful men. Elle’s rejection of wealth is about resisting the narrative that her success must be tied to a man’s.
Elle’s father embodies the theme in its most toxic form. His success enabled him to exert more control Elle’s mother over time. She eventually became dependent on him for everything—from communication and transportation to financial survival—which left her miserable. When she finally left him, he retaliated by withholding child support and sabotaging her job prospects, showing that his support was never unconditional—it was transactional. Later, when Elle seeks help for her mother’s medical care, he offers money in exchange for influence over Elle’s and Cali’s lives. This financial aid, too, comes with strings attached: control over college majors, relationships, and ultimately, his children’s very identities. It’s this complex history with her father that instills Elle with a deep mistrust of money’s role in personal relationships. His power is not merely financial, but narrative: He consistently tries to reframe his children’s lives as his own achievement, mirroring the societal tendency to credit male authority for female success.
Parker, while not malevolent, initially mirrors this pattern of abusing wealth in subtler ways. He uses money to express affection, buying Elle gifts, securing exclusive venues, and even purchasing the Gramercy townhouse she dreamt of someday buying herself. These acts are meant to show love, but to Elle, they reflect a lack of understanding. When she says, “You took that from me… you don’t even understand why that means something to me” (263), it’s a pivotal moment: Parker’s financial gesture replicates the erasure she has fought her whole life. Though he means it as a romantic gesture, unfortunately it is received by Elle as an act of exerting control over her. However, unlike Elle’s father, Parker evolves. He eventually comes to understand that love must include not only giving but also yielding: stepping back so Elle can achieve something for herself. The novel’s ultimate resolution occurs only when Elle buys the Gramercy townhouse herself and Parker acknowledges her need to live on her own terms.
Throughout the novel, Elle and Parker focus on replacing their bad memories in New York City with newer, more positive memories. This practice allows for them to heal from the past and reclaim the city as home. Therefore, Writing Over the Past operates in the novel both as a literal process—Elle is a screenwriter crafting a narrative—and a metaphor for healing from her own past. Elle’s journey is one of revisiting, recontextualizing, and ultimately reshaping the narrative of her life, transforming her pain into purpose and her trauma into growth. Aster uses writing not only as Elle’s profession but as her primary means of processing grief, asserting control, and reconciling with who she is. This theme also functions metafictionally: Elle’s story about revising trauma and learning to embrace vulnerability mirrors the narrative we are reading, highlighting the porous boundary between life and art.
Elle’s career is built on anonymity, a decision that directly correlates to her past. She hides her identity not for privacy alone, but to shield her creative output from being co-opted by the father who once tried to control every aspect of her life. For her, staying unnamed means staying untouchable. But this secrecy also keeps her frozen in time—unchanging, unable to move forward. It is only through the rekindling of her creative fire—sparked by Parker, her “twisted muse”—that Elle begins to see writing not as an escape, but as a confrontation of her flawed coping mechanisms. She begins to mine details from her own life, her fears, and her memories to create something more honest and emotionally resonant than before as she writes her script.
As she rediscovers her voice, she begins to rewrite more than screenplays—she rewrites her own narrative. New York becomes a city of possibility. Locations like Central Park, The High Line, and Gramercy Park are no longer symbolic of a life she couldn’t access—they become integrated into the story she’s choosing to live. She builds a social circle that his thriving and healthy; she is no longer a “deserted island” as Penelope calls her in Chapter 7 (40). As she realizes in Chapter 19, “I’ve built a life outside of my writing, outside my apartment. It happened suddenly, without warning. One day, I woke up, and there was a little city built around me. I’m no longer a deserted island” (180). Elle is actively making efforts to not let her past define her or keep her in a state of status-quo. This act of “painting over” the bad memories of the city and other aspects of her past, as Parker puts it, is a layering of positive change over old wounds. In doing so, Elle transforms the city into a living scrapbook of recovery—each moment of joy or connection retroactively revises what the city once meant. It shifts from a site of trauma to a place of growth.
At the start of the novel, Elle is positioned as a screenwriter who writes about the person she wishes she was, and her characters do the things she wishes she could. She is the author of stories featuring other people, but in terms of her own life story, she’s got metaphorical writer’s block—she exists in a mostly solitary status-quo and avoids opening herself up to an inciting incident that will inspire change in her life. This framing positions her in a passive role. She, paradoxically, crafts bold narratives for others while failing to live boldly herself—a key tension at the heart of her internal conflict.
During the first chapter, which flashes back to two years prior to the events of the rest of the novel, she goes to the club with Penelope, which is described as out-of-character for Elle. At the club, she engages in a passionate make-out in a private stairwell with Parker, during which she narrates internally:
His eyes linger on my chest before finally finding mine. And I’m nearly knocked off my precarious heels at the intensity there. Pure want. Like he’s looking for his final chance at a movie moment too. I’m not sure who moves first—but before I know it, we’re in a stairwell. And I’m pressed against a wall. We’re both breathing too quickly, my neck is craned up, his down. And this isn’t me, and this is a stranger, but it’s the closest thing to a movie moment I’ve ever had (6).
This sets the tone for the entire story, introducing Elle as someone who doesn’t allow herself to live the script she wishes for herself and positioning Parker as a character who will be the catalyst that encourages her to change this. Her character growth throughout the novel encapsulates this transition from simply enduring to actively living. Throughout the novel, she mentions moments where her life resembles a movie, which illuminates points where she is intuitionally becoming the protagonist of her own story. Elle’s scriptwriting nearing its midpoint coincides with the blossoming of her romance with Parker and the blossoming of her social circles. She is living her best story in real life instead of on the page. Elle says the following about her script: “I’ve broken into my story, and it’s like I can’t write the words fast enough […] I crave it like a drug; I live it like a second life” (179). Though she usually lives vicariously through her scripts, this time, her script is “a second life,” meaning it comes second to her real life—which, for the first time, is better than her fictional realities. In genre terms, Elle’s arc mimics a romance-meets-artist’s-bildungsroman: She doesn’t just fall in love; she learns how to show up for her own story.
Elle’s mother’s letter at the end of the novel seals this theme: “Don’t save the best stories for your screenplays. Live them” (271). That message catalyzes Elle’s final transformation, urging her to stop hiding behind her scripts and begin living a life worth writing about. This includes pursuing a romance with Parker despite her fears about money, independence, and longevity. The idea that one can begin again—not just once, but “again and again”—rejects fatalism and affirms that she can always reclaim her personal agency if she ever happens to lose it.



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