It’s been more than three months since I’ve posted, but I’ve been reading. And I’ve begun to lose faith in my ability to choose readable books.
This summer I read some serious crap. With a few exceptions, everything I have read since I posted on June 10 about “Peyton Place,” (and was pleasantly surprise that it wasn’t crap) has been on the crap spectrum.
I read novels that were highly praised and were crap-like, but not complete turds; novels that sounded good in theory but were crap-ish; good stories ruined by crappy writing; crappy stories told crappily and one of the worst books I’ve ever been encouraged to read. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here, in short form, are reviews of four memoirs I read that all could have been much better.