I’ve read a few memoirs this year. Some were good and some made me want to gouge my eyes out – or at the very least, go to sleep. . . forever.
I’ve decided that I do not want to read any memoirs for the remainder of the year. Sorry Frank McCourt, I guess I won’t be getting to Angela’s Ashes in 2010 (unless someone can convince me otherwise).
Why don’t I want to read any more memoirs?
For starters, they depress they hell out of me. I’m tired of reading about all of the crap that happens to these writers. If you’re going to write about your life, I’d like to be inspired or at least laugh along the way. Ask me why I love Donald Miller or David Sedaris.
Sometimes these stories bore me to tears. The book I’m currently reading won several book awards (?) and yet each page is an immense struggle. I don’t really care what color the fish in the pond were or what grandma’s hair smelled like. Your mom was a nut job – end of story.
It’s because of readers like myself that I get the willies when I think about writing a memoir.
Maybe I should write about how I became so insensitive and critical.