This book didn't do anything for me, but I don't think it's the fault of the book. I think it's just because I don't like memoirs. Perhaps a memoir would be an enjoyable read for me if it were about someone I knew or a vaguely famous person whose career I'd been following, but memoirs in general, even when they are well-reviewed, don't do it for me. I simply am not emotionally attached to the same things to which the author is emotionally attached, and I don't necessarily see the same significance in events that she does. She is doubtless sparing us certain details to preserve some modicum of her own privacy, but those are the very details that would have made the story interesting to me. Similarly, the things that she appears to feel are bold, dramatic exposures of her innermost self are rather ho-hum to me, because in most cases I know someone or another who has been through a similar experience.
I think authors write memoirs more for themselves and perhaps those who know them, and so far in my life (not just with this book but with others) it has been a waste of my time to read them.
This is why I'm not going to bother to blog about the book itself at all. My dislike for memoirs should not in any way be construed as any sort of review of the literary merit of this book. If you want more well-thought-out reviews, feel free to do some googling or go to amazon.
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