Review: Where Am I Now? True Stories of Girlhood and Accidental Fame by Mara Wilson

For the benefit of those of you slightly younger than me and for those of similar age who were living under a rock during their childhood, Mara Wilson was the child actress who starred in Matilda, Mrs Doubtfire, Miracle on 34th Street, etc. She doesn't act much anymore but after stumbling across her Twitter and, subsequently, her blog, I desperately wanted to read her recent memoir.

Summary: Mara Wilson has always felt a little young and a little out of place: as the only child on a film set full of adults, the first daughter in a house full of boys, the sole clinically depressed member of the cheerleading squad, a valley girl in New York and a neurotic in California, and one of the few former child actors who has never been in jail or rehab. Tackling everything from how she first learned about sex on the set of Melrose Place, to losing her mother at a young age, to getting her first kiss (or was it kisses?) on a celebrity canoe trip, to not being “cute” enough to make it in Hollywood, these essays tell the story of one young woman’s journey from accidental fame to relative (but happy) obscurity. But they also illuminate a universal struggle: learning to accept yourself, and figuring out who you are and where you belong.

I loved this book from the second I started flicking through it on the train on the way home, and from the minute I began sneaking pages when I was meant to be cleaning. The Boy is used to this by now, however, and my wails of 'BUT IT'S MATILDA!' did not prevent the obligatory eye roll and dramatic presentation of furniture polish.

It's brilliant because I now love Mara Wilson both as a person, and because she can actually write really, really well. I admit that I haven't given her a whole lot of thought since I last turned off Matilda because, well, why would I? I had no idea what she was doing with herself nowadays and it hadn't occurred to me to wonder. I probably wouldn't have reserved her book if I hadn't had a glimpse of her writing on her blog and felt compelled to read more.

I really love that it's not a chronological memoir - it's not 'I was born here and then I did this, and then I went to this school...', but it's not really an essay collection either. It's a wonderful blend of those two things. It is about Mara's life and her experiences, obviously, but cutting out the boring bits that come with chronological memoirs, and without briefly skating past topics like with the standard essay-style collections.

Topics include her experiences with competitive choir as a teenager, her childhood anxious existentialism, the need for feminism and, of course, her transition from childhood star to... not. I adore how candid she is about this period of her life. She freely admits that she was a cute child who grew up to not really conform to the Hollywood standards of beauty, so she was Out. She puts it much more bluntly, of course:

Even with my braces off, with contact lenses and a better haircut, I was always going to look the way I did. I knew I wasn’t a gorgon, but I guessed that if ten strangers were to look at a photo of me, probably about four or five of them would find me attractive. That would not be good enough for Hollywood, where an actress had to be attractive to eight out of ten people to be considered for even the homely best friend character.  

 I (now) know that she has experience in writing (both academically and through her one-man shows, etc) so perhaps it's it's only to be expected, but she writes very well. Not just '... for a celebrity,' but it's actually, objectively, good. I felt angry when she was describing the joys of seeing comparisons of your childhood and adult faces of the Internet when you least expect it, and I teared up when she was expressing her sadness over the loss of Robin Williams. She's very self-deprecating and never woe-is-me, but you end up sharing her emotions, or at least those she chooses to project.

Every week or so, a well‑meaning friend or fan sends me an article about me. Below some variation of “What Do They Look Like Now?” there is inevitably an unflattering photo of me and hundreds of comments from people who think I'm ugly.

Some are delighted, schadenfreudic: I was once paid to be cute, but now the child actor curse has caught up with me, and I'm not so cute anymore, am I? Others seem angry. My image belongs to them and they aren’t happy that I don’t match up to what they pictured. This type is the most likely to give advice: I should colour my hair, get a nose job, lose twenty pounds, go die in a hole somewhere.

There are, of course, humorous anecdotes about shooting those iconic films with Danny DeVito and Robin Williams. There's a whole chapter dedicated to the former, which was expected, but none the less moving for it.

I'm gushing, I know, but Where Am I Now? is a wonderful, surprising book, and one that I wanted to reread immediately after finishing it. I feel that I now know more of her as an insightful, self-deprecating person, not just a former childstar. I'll honestly read anything she ever writes. 

Visit Mara's blog, Mara Wilson Writes Stuff, or find her on Twitter. 

Review: Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science by Atul Gawande

Oh how I loved this book. It might be because I was just relieved to read something, anything, that wasn't Armada, but I don't think that would be doing Atul Gawande justice. This book is beautifully written, occasionally heart-warming and so much more than one of those generic 'horrific tales from A&E' memoirs. 

Summary: Gently dismantling the myth of medical infallibility, Dr. Atul Gawande's Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science is essential reading for anyone involved in medicine--on either end of the stethoscope. Medical professionals make mistakes, learn on the job, and improvise much of their technique and self-confidence. Gawande's tales are humane and passionate reminders that doctors are people, too. His prose is thoughtful and deeply engaging, shifting from sometimes painful stories of suffering patients (including his own child) to intriguing suggestions for improving medicine with the same care he expresses in the surgical theater. Some of his ideas will make health care providers nervous or even angry, but his disarming style, confessional tone, and thoughtful arguments should win over most readers.

I should begin by saying that this relates directly to my day job - I advise and defend Doctors and other health professionals who are the subject of legal claims due to an alleged negligence. I've worked on neurosurgery, retained objects and delayed diagnosis claims, amongst others, so this book has a certain amount of interest for me.

Complications is far from merely a collection of anecdotes about 'when things go wrong,' however, and I do think it would interest everybody. Instead, Dr Gawande examines the concepts of surgery itself and discusses the different theories behind why things go wrong and the difficulty of actually implementing improvements. It's absolutely fascinating.

Two things really got me about this book - 1) the beauty of the writing, and 2) the humanity behind it. I propose to deal with them in turn, if I may. The prose in Complications is amazing though. He doesn't just write well 'for a surgeon,' Atul Gawande has a style that any author would be proud of. I've seen how surgeons write, and usually you're lucky if they've managed to spell the patient's name correctly. Mr Gawande is eloquent, articulate and patient as he guides us through the unforeseen conundrums of what surgery actually entails.

However, he doesn't beat the reader over their head with his qualifications. Obviously he references his job fairly often, as well as anecdotes that have come from his colleagues. What impressed me though, is that he also refers to his personal life and isn't above admitting fallibility when it comes to personal, medical decisions. There's a chapter that discusses the need to train new surgeons v providing the best possible care for patients. Trainees need to 'practice,' but who really wants an inexperienced student cutting into them? Mr Gawande refers to his own experience, in which he was asked whether he minded a surgical trainee performing his son's operation. Despite all his logic to the contrary, he refused. 

This is the uncomfortable truth about teaching. By traditional ethics and public insistence (not to mention court rulings), a patient's right to the best care possible must trump the objective of training novices. We want perfection without practice. Yet everyone is harmed if no one is trained for the future. So learning is hidden, behind drapes and anaesthesia and the elisions of language. Nor does the dilemma apply just to residents, physicians in training. In fact, the process of learning turns out to extend longer than most people know.

The book is divided into three parts, called Fallibility, Mystery and Uncertainty. The first section deals with the topics I've touched on - the best way to train surgeons, when/why good doctors go bad, the lessons learned from surgical conferences, etc. 

The second part, Mystery, was my least favourite, although still interesting. Essentially it discusses three cases and the conceptual issues that arose from those particular matters. There's a TV presenter that undergoes surgery to control her chronic blushing, for example, and Mr Gawande touches on the judgement she's since received since her surgery was performed. They're interesting, but I personally preferred the more abstract chapters.

The Uncertainty chapters swing back into the discussion, dealing with topics like the inevitable requirement to take chances when performing surgery, the extent to which patients should be given control over their own care and whether human instinct or computers are better at providing accurate diagnoses.

Complications is perfectly accessible for a layperson. Every term and every abbreviation is seamlessly explained within the text, without the need to flick back to a glossary or consult a footnote. There are only one or two places that the mildly squeamish may balk at, but you can see them coming so it would be easy to gloss over them if necessary.

I hadn't realised that this was published way back in 2002 - it's just recently been rereleased in a pretty cover to match his other, newer books, Better: A Surgeon's Notes on Performance and Being Mortal: Illness, Medicine and What Matters in the End. Still, as the focus is on conceptual discussion more than particular treatments, I wouldn't think Complications is horrendously out of date. I just know I'm already desperate to read his other books. This one is perfect.'

Visit Mr Gawande's website here.    

Review: More Fool Me by Stephen Fry

I received a copy of More Fool Me when I attended a promotional talk by Stephen Fry in early September. I've read a few of his novels, (Making History, most notably) but this is my first of his autobiographies, despite owning both the two previos works, Moab Is My Washpot and The Fry Chronicles. The problem is, it's very hard to review a book of which the author has stood in front of you, pointed out the flaws and swiftly defended against every single one of them.

Plot summary: In his early thirties, Stephen Fry - writer, comedian, star of stage and screen - had, as they say, 'made it'. Much loved in A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Blackadder and Jeeves and Wooster, author of a critically acclaimed and bestselling first novel, The Liar, with a glamorous and glittering cast of friends, he had more work than was perhaps good for him. What could possibly go wrong?

Then, as the 80s drew to a close, he discovered a most enjoyable way to burn the candle at both ends, and took to excess like a duck to breadcrumbs. Writing and recording by day, and haunting a never ending series of celebrity parties, drinking dens, and poker games by night, in a ludicrous and impressive act of bravado, he fooled all those except the very closest to him, some of whom were most enjoyably engaged in the same dance.

He was - to all intents and purposes - a high functioning addict. Blazing brightly and partying wildly as the 80s turned to the 90s, AIDS became an epidemic and politics turned really nasty, he was so busy, so distracted by the high life, that he could hardly see the inevitable, headlong tumble that must surely follow . . .

So, yes, he has written three biographies and he can't possibly have that much to say about himself. Yes, it is setting a bad example to write about drugs and their influence. Yes, he has written it completely for himself and not for anybody else. So, uh... there's not much to say, really. Thanks Stephen.

Except that it starts with 67 pages of recapping the other two books. He keeps almost laughing at himself for doing it, but is it really necessary? If you like Stephen Fry enough to buy this book, you've probably either read them already or know enough to be able to pick up the gist if he just started talking. It's weird - thorough but vague at the same time. It's a basically just a list of everything he's done to date, but not a quick or a lively one.

It was a huge effort not to skim as I just couldn't click with the bland style of the recap. Maybe he was just trying to whip through it in order to get to 'the good stuff,' but then again 67 pages is hardly whipping anything. He says 'Oh, I'd just skip this if I were you,' but yes. You actually should.

When the actual book started, I did end up getting into it. It's basically just a collection of anecdotes, loosely crammed under a 'drugs' heading (but not really). The thing is, I then ended up getting back out of it again. After about two thirds of the way through, it just turns into Stephen Fry's diary from 1993, which he swears is genuine... and then it ends. That's it.

It's weird. I just don't understand the point. His diary is just a list of what he did that day, how much he wrote and who he was with. Frankly, it's boring. I don't understand who half the people are or what the abbreviations mean... why write half a book and then shove a few months of your diary in!?

I was expecting a slightly rambling, casual look at Stephen Fry's drug use - what prompted him to begin, his life whilst using and then eventually what prompted him to stop. Except not. The latter isn't even mentioned. Other than declaring drug use to be a silly habit that he regrets, it doesn't tell us anything about how, why or when he stopped and for me, that was the most interesting part. 

The problem is, it's Stephen Fry. He's obviously talented, clever and very witty, and so the good parts of More Fool Me are very good. It made me snuffle with amusement a few times as he perfectly captured the essence of Hugh Laurie and Rowan Atkinson (or so I'd imagine - they hardly ever return my postcards, you know) and there's a very moving chapter about the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s.

   We all arose early the next morning. Why I didn't photograph Hugh Laurie hoovering the drawing-room carpet I have no idea. It would be worth millions in black-mail money today. Ah well.*

*I was wise enough to run the manuscript of this book by Hugh to check for accuracy. I am sometimes accused of a good memory, but it is only good for useless things. Hugh's is both compendious and useful. I quote his response ro the paragraph above: '... not that it matters, but it was definitely Rowan who did the hoovering. I also distinctly remember him driving to the petrol station - the only place open on New Year's Day - and coming back with fig rolls, for God's sake.'

But, as I said at the beginning, Mr. Fry neatly dispelled all possible issues with it during the talk I attended - he wrote this for himself. Which is fair enough - I wish I were well-regarded enough to hash out a novel just to make myself feel better. Unfortunately, it shows. I could have dealt with the 67 pages of recap if it weren't for the third-long diary section, as the two combined render the actual book very short indeed. I just don't understand what it was trying to do or what the point of publishing the diary was.

I know it doesn't show through here, but I like Stephen Fry. He seemed approachable, genuine and likeable throughout his talk and I find him amusing on television. It's just the book I have a problem with. His anecdotes are interesting and his wit shines through on occasion, but unfortunately More Fool Me is just too cobbled-together and weird for me to recommend it.

Read my review of Stephen Fry's novel, Making History. 

Review: Orange is the New Black: My Time in a Women's Prison by Piper Kerman

Before I even start writing this review, let me just mention here that my day-job very heavily revolves around this area. I rehabilitate those released from prison who may need assistance with relearning how to function in society. I don't think it's affected this review but I'm not usually one for keeping my opinions to myself...

Plot summary: With her career, live-in boyfriend and loving family, Piper Kerman barely resembles the rebellious young woman who got mixed up with drug runners and delivered a suitcase of drug money to Europe over a decade ago. But when she least expects it, her reckless past catches up with her; convicted and sentenced to fifteen months at an infamous women's prison in Connecticut, Piper becomes inmate #11187-424. From her first strip search to her final release, she learns to navigate this strange world with its arbitrary rules and codes, its unpredictable, even dangerous relationships. She meets women from all walks of life, who surprise her with tokens of generosity, hard truths and simple acts of acceptance.

This isn't fiction, as I know many people have been led to believe. Instead it's the true story of a middle-class, middle-aged white woman who was sent to a women's prison for an offence she had committed ten years previously. Piper is American and therefore goes through the U.S. Criminal Justice System - it would be interesting to hear a similar story from a British woman, although that's slightly off-topic.

The theme of the book seems to be 'hey, look how petty and badly organised prison is.' She's given underwear that isn't clean, the prison store is out of handheld radios and has to cobble together quesadillas in the dormitory microwave because she doesn't like the canteen food. The thing is, for me she missed the mark because she actually made it sound kind of... fun and I'm 100% positive that wasn't her plan.

I did feel for Piper in the beginning. She was so bewildered at what was happening to her and why it was taking so long to go through the system, but then that bewilderment seemed to persist throughout her entire stay. She has a constant air of mild confusion about how she could possibly be in prison but then tries so damn hard to not say it, bless her. It's like she wants a sticker for being a Trooper. Thing is... you know, she did break the law. Without going into the morality of her crime and the concept of proportionate sentencing, it doesn't seem overly unreasonable that she went to prison for a crime she knowingly and willingly committed.

At least Piper says this herself. There's just something there that stops me from quite believing her. She doesn't actually annoy me (which is odd), but it did prevent me from taking Orange is the New Black seriously. I just wanted to pat her on the head - of course you think prison is unfair and badly organised. You were in it. You're not meant to like it. 

I do respect her a little for mentioning how much luckier she was than some of the other inmates. She received books from the outside, had visitors every weekend and was generally treated better by the guards for being white and respectable (she believes). She at least acknowledges that her time there wasn't as bad as it could have been and there were many others in much worse situations. 

I had only the most tenuous idea of what might happen next, but I knew that I would have to be brave. Not foolhardy, not in love with risk and danger, not making ridiculous exhibitions of myself to prove that I wasn't terrified - really, genuinely brave. Brave enough to be quiet when quiet was called for, brave enough to observe before flinging myself into something, brave enough to not abandon my true self when someone else wanted to seduce or force me in a direction I didn't want to go, brave enough to stand my ground quietly. I waited an unquantifiable amount of time while trying to be brave.

However, I do object to the final chapter. It's set out as a factual analysis of everything that's wrong with the prison system, but it's actually just a rant. She believes the system doesn't work and that's absolutely fair enough, but she needs to explain why in an objective manner. She doesn't explain why the prison system is badly run and ineffective, just kind of bleats that it is. This is a light-hearted memoir that has produced an equally light-hearted TV series - you can't shove a monologue at the end and expect to change the world. 

The ending itself is kind of anti-climactic. The story doesn't go past her stepping out of the prison gates, when I wanted to know more about her reentering society and her relationship. She spent a lot of time discussing whether prison gives inmates the skills they need to find employment or just successfully function as a free person, but then doesn't explain her own experiences. It may just be because Piper had a short sentence and an excellent support system (a friend had a job already lined up for her) but it still could have been interesting.

I think this review might come across as negative when actually I did enjoy Orange is the New Black. Piper is a little uppity and preachy, but it's bearable. It's an enjoyable and accessible memoir about a minimum security women's prison; just take her social commentary with a pinch of salt.

Read other reviews of Orange is the New Black at Devouring Texts and Curiosity Killed the Bookworm.

Review: Don't Kill the Birthday Girl by Sandra Beasley

I apologise in advance for any typos or odd symbols that find their way into this post. I'm typing this on my boyfriend's shiny new Windows Surface that is balanced precariously perfectly safely on a cushion on my knee. Thing is, because a) it doesn't have a proper keyboard and b) I am shit scared of breaking it, I'm writing rather like my dad right now... *pokes button with index finger* *pauses* *pokes again*

Summary: Like twelve million other Americans, Sandra Beasley suffers from food allergies. Her allergies—severe and lifelong—include dairy, egg, soy, beef, shrimp, pine nuts, cucumbers, cantaloupe, honeydew, mango, macadamias, pistachios, cashews, swordfish, and mustard. Add to that mould, dust, grass and tree pollen, cigarette smoke, dogs, rabbits, horses, and wool, and it’s no wonder Sandra felt she had to live her life as “Allergy Girl.” When butter is deadly and eggs can make your throat swell shut, cupcakes and other treats of childhood are out of the question—and so Sandra’s mother used to warn guests against a toxic, frosting-tinged kiss with “Don’t kill the birthday girl!”

It may seem that such a person is “not really designed to survive,” as one blunt nutritionist declared while visiting Sandra’s fourth-grade class. But Sandra has not only survived, she’s thrived—now an essayist, editor, and award-winning poet, she has learned to navigate a world in which danger can lurk in an unassuming corn chip. Don’t Kill the Birthday Girl is her story.

So I don't have a whole lot of great experience with illness memoirs, as I've decided to call them. The only other I've read is Chocolate and Vicodin, which could have been great but... wasn't. Far be it from me to snobbily assess the merits of a person's illness, but it read like a rather long whine about how tough the author's life is.

Enter Sandra Beasley. She does not whine, or rant, or bitch. She does not melodramatically hold her hand to her forehead or sink to her knees amid wails of despair. Instead she just kind of... gets on with it. She doesn't state what her motivation for writing Don't Kill the Birthday Girl was, but it reads as a tool to raise awareness of just how dehabilitating severe food allergies can be.

It's fairly obvious that eating out at a restaurant can be problematic if you have allergies, but this book opened my eyes to the less obvious ways in which they can impact your life. What if you're a devout Catholic unable to take Communion? Or a child at a birthday party who sees all their friend eating cake? Sometimes you just don't think through the consequences of what can seem like a rather trivial illness.

All the rites of eating I've ever envied have been secular - defined by pop culture, geography, or my era. But in scenarios where the ritual is religious, and strictly codified, those with food allergies or other dietary restrictions experience a more profound exclusion. Around 2001, a controversy arose when Boston's Roman Catholic Church (seconded by the Archdiocese of New York) affirmed its decree that rice-based wafers were not an acceptable substitute for wheat-based Communion wafers - even for those unable to ingest wheat.
...
Or, as the pastor of Our Lady Help of Christians Parish was quoted as saying during a 2001 interview with the Associatied Press at the time of the Boston controversy: "We many are sharing one bread and becoming one with Christ. We can't make different flavors for different folks and maintain that theological reality."

It's evident that an awful lot of research has gone into this book, in addition to the information that the author has presumably accumulated over several years visiting allergy specialists. There are historical and sociological points brought in, as well as visiting allergies from lots of different perspectives. The result is almost an accessible examination of allergies through the ages and it works really, really well. It is a memoir as Ms Beasley frequently draws upon her own experiences, but it's much more well-rounded and objective than you'd think.

For example, despite obviously, obviously, obviously having sympathy for allergy sufferers of all types (it would be odd if she didn't), she's able to discuss whether perhaps certain aspects are overhyped - there's a whole chapter on how peanut allergies have been blown out of proportion and she doesn't agree with nut-free airplanes, etc. Just to clarify, this lady is severally allergic to dairy, beef, soy, shellfish and a whole host of other things and yet she still doesn't need the world to alter itself just for her.

Not only do I like the book, I also like Sandra Beasley herself. Sometimes it can be difficult to review a memoir objectively when the voice and opinions of the author get in the way, but here she only adds to the value. This is an informative, objective look at allergies from the perspective of a likeable long-term sufferer. I really can't recommend this highly enough.

Visit Sandra Beasley's website here or find her on Twitter.

Review: The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance by Elna Baker

It's hard to pinpoint exactly what The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance (and that's the one and only time I'm typing that title out) is actually about, although it seems like it should be obvious. While it is about a lonely Mormon girl trying to find a partner, it's also about weight loss, religion, self image, sisters, careers and a whole lot more besides. Elna Baker is a great, funny author and I will definitely be reading anything else she decides to write. 

Plot summary: It's lonely being a Mormon in New York City. Every year, Elna Baker attends the New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance - a virgin in a room full of thirty-year-old virgins doing the Funky Chicken. And once again, Elna is alone at the punch bowl, stocking up on Oreos, exactly where you'd expect to find a single Mormon who's also a Big Girl. But loneliness is nothing compared to what Elna feels when she loses eighty pounds, finds herself suddenly beautiful... and in love with an atheist.

I didn't know a whole lot about Mormonism before I read this book, but then I didn't realise that I didn't know until I read it, if that makes any sense. Elna Baker manages to present her religion in an explanatory way, that manages to be neither condescending nor judgemental and I now feel much more informed than I did before. Mormonism states that you must marry another Mormon before you can get to the highest level of Heaven - with that kind of pressure, it's no wonder Ms Baker couldn't settle for an athiest.

Still, don't think for a second that this book is just a lengthy religious lecture as the best thing about The NYRMSHD is Elna's voice. She actually sounds like a real person, which can be rare in memoir-esque books like this one. I'm not convinced the veracity of some of the events themselves, but that's fine - it's not like it's a signed witness statement, and a little exaggeration is par for the course.

I actually laughed out loud at certain chapters and just didn't want them to end. My favourite is the outline of her time working in the doll department at FAO Schwarz.

The display baby was on display for a reason. It could not be sold. Something terrible happened in the factory on the day of its birth because the doll's fingers were not like the other babies [sic]. They had been molded together - making it look like it had flippers instead of hands. As if that weren't bad enough, it had curly red Chuckie hair and scary green eyes, and it's head weighed at least five pounds more than all the other babies' heads. As a result, when you lifted the baby, its head would automatically flop back, and its little flippers would flip up - making him look like a tabloid monster baby.

Which is how the doll earned its nickname: Nubbins. And because Nubbins was for display purposes only, he didn't have an incubator like the other babies. Instead, he was kept in a cupboard. This was especially disturbing because Nubbins had a knack for looking dead. So when you opened the cupboard you'd find him slumped over onto his enormous head with his arms flopped behind him, like he died in Downward-Facing Dog. 

However, as is often the case in this genre of book, it did lose its way towards the end. It seems to be A Thing though - frequently the funniest memoirs will be repetetive and bland by the end, and The NYRMSHD is no exception. The last few chapters are the weakest when they should be the strongest, as they're the parts people remember when they're thinking back on the book as a whole (or writing a review!). Instead they were very self-pitying and, frankly, kind of boring.

On the whole, I really did enjoy this book. There were some incredibly funny parts and Elna Baker has a wonderful 'voice' that makes me positive I'd love her in real life. Unfortunately, the chapters at the very end felt like they'd been tacked on to make up numbers as they didn't really 'gel' with the rest and came across as rather self-pitying.

Visit Elna Baker's website or find her on Twitter.

Review: Cuckoo in the Nest by Natalie Luurtsema

Hey look! I haven't died, although you'd be forgiven for thinking I had. In fact, it more or less amounts to the same thing - Law School. I started last week and pretty much all I've done since then is study and, very occasionally, sleep. Still, I'm working on some semblance of a routine though, so hopefully you should see my reviews a little more frequently than they have been :)

Summary - Last year Nat (stand-up comic and general incompetent) found herself with nowhere to live. She considered sleeping on the bus and washing in the rain but inevitable ended up on her parents' doorstep. It was only for a month, she assured them, if that. She repeated this phrase a lot over the next six months, while the housing market stagnated like a spoilt kid's fish tank, and her life followed suit. While her friends pursued normal adult lives, Nat was taking packed lunches to gigs and being treated to lectures on 'Why It's Nice When All The Tins Face Forwards In The Cupboard.' ("So we can see what they all are at a glance!")

Nat wouldn't say she was the real victim of the recession, but it would be nice if you did. Then she would do a tiny, brave smile.

I seem to be going through a bit of a funny memoir phase lately - there's my recent review of Let's Pretend This Never Happened by the hilarious Jenny Lawson, my current rereading of How To Be A Woman and the way that Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? and Bossypants are beckoning me seductively from the top of my TBR pile. Cuckoo in the Nest is one of the more obscure titles, but I picked it up as the premise appealed to me in a relatable, oh-good-you're-pathetic-too kind of way.

The first thing you should know is that Natalie Luurtsema is a comedian, not a writer. Yes, this book is hilarious in parts but it can occasionally be a struggle to work through the awful sentence structure. Sometimes I had to reread a sentence two or three times in order to appropirately rearrange it in my head so it would make sense. It's not bad bad - you get used to it, just be prepared to kind of roll with it for a while.

It really is worth it though - I'd be interested in watching one of the author's comedy gigs, because her book is pretty damn funny. I was sat in a comfy chair in the library, sneakily stalking the reservation shelves, and suddenly I became that crazy person that giggles to herself. You know the one, they always tend to sit next to you on trains? It's very, very funny, especially because I'm sure so many of us can relate.

   "You're banned!" she cried triumphantly. "Banned! From the pale-coloured sofa!"
   She waggled the bit of sofa at me, which I recognised as the armrest. It seemed bigger out of context, but that was by the by.
   "See?" she said, gesturing delicately along a seam, like I was being scolded by a shopping channel presenter. "It's all filthy from where you sit there and do this (and she made a creepy claw motion like a tyrannosaurus rex impersonating Fagin) with your greasy hands."
   Now, I'm not a vain woman. Looks-wide I neither scare children nor inspire poetry. That's fine. But I firmly refuted this greasy-fingered, furniture-caressing grotbag image she was trying to thrust upon me.

 I could happily (happily, I tell you!) sit here and type out quotes all day - God knows it took me long enough to choose one - but this review will be nowhere near long enough to justify shoving in all the quotes that made me snuffle. Suffice it to say that there are a lot. 

As a slight diversion, you know what really bothers me? Okay, yes, a lot of things, but in relation to books. And this isn't a slight at Natalie Luurtsema, it's more of a general thing. You give up? Epilogues. I have never read a book ever where an epilogue actually added anything to the story. In most cases it actually ruins it. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Mockingjay? I'm looking at you.

Anyway, to meander back to a semblance of relevance, Cuckoo in the Nest has an epilogue and my thoughts above remain unchanged. One might say they were even concreted. I'm not going to spoil it, but it changed the entire tone of the book for me and left me thoroughly depressed. No, nobody dies, but I did end up sat there thinking 'Where the hell did THAT come from!?' It just didn't seem necessary to me and it did genuinely alter my opinion towards the book as a whole.

I really did enjoy reading this book, although it's not something I'd actually want to own. I think it could have been a lot more if it had been edited a little more aggressively and had seriously reworked the epilogue, but it does have some truly hilarious moments and I couldn't help but sit and giggle to myself.

Read my reviews of How To Be A Woman and Let's Pretend This Never Happened, two equally hilarious memoirs!

Review: Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson

So I'm not really much of a book-laugher, or a laugher-at-books if you prefer. I'm more of a snuffler - when something amuses me, I make a noise that's kind of a hybrid between a tiger that's pleased to see you and Muttley. Jenny Lawson, however, made me laugh out loud until I cried, both with her debut book and with her blog, The Bloggess.

Summary - Every teenager wants to fit in and be just like everybody else. So imagine how hard that is when your father runs a taxidermy business out of the family home, your mother runs the student cafeteria, and your sister has just been elected high school mascot, which means she walks the halls in a giant bird costume. But as Jenny Lawson grows up, falls in love, gets engaged - in a way that is as disastrous as it is romantic - and starts a family of her own, she learns that life's most absurd and humiliating moments, the ones we wish we could pretend had never happened, are the very same moments that make us who we are.

I actually picked up Let's Pretend This Never Happened before I knew anything about Jenny Lawson or her blog. It was part of the 'Staff Picks' stand at Waterstones and I figured I'd give it a go, intrigued by the costumed mouse on the cover. Only later, after I'd read the blurb properly, did I finally click onto The Bloggess. And then, approximately five hours later, I temporarily stopped reading it. 

It was almost inevitable that this book would be compared to Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman - the cover is unnecessarily similar and the chatty, informal writing style is great in both. However, although both are autobiographical to a certain extent, How To Be A Woman deals with the sub-issue of feminism while this book spends more time with mental illness and anxiety. When you also take in the difference in countries, upbringings and employment, you actually have two quite different books.

This woman is hilarious - reading her blog is at the top of my 4am activity list (What? You don't have one of those!? You're missing out!) and I nearly always end up literally crying with laughter. I was reading Let's Pretend This Never Happened on the train, tried to stifle my laughter and ended up choking. Like I said way up top, I am a snuffler, not a laugher, so this is one pretty damn special book.

   It was at this exact moment that the 'dead' rattlesnake suddenly started angrilily striking at Victor's leg. Uncoincidently, it was also the exact same moment that I ducked back into the truck, taking the spotlight with me and leaving Victor in the pitch-black darkness on an abandoned road, as the angry rattlesnake he was holding tried to murder him.
   "BRING BACK THE LIGHT," he screamed.
   "I TOLD YOU NOT TO GO OUT THERE!" I yelled angrily, as I quickly locked the doors (for some reason) and rolled up all the windows. I was worried about him and wanted to help him, but I couldn't help but think that he had brought this on himself.
    "BRING BACK THE LIGHT OR I WILL THROW THIS DAMN SNAKE IN THE CAR WITH YOU," he screamed, which was surprising, both because he sounded very vital for someone dying of snakebite, and also because he'd wrongly assumed that I hadn't automatically locked all the doors. He knows so little about me,  I thought to myself.
...
   After a minute to slow his breathing, Victor's voice was only vaguely controlled. "You left me alone. In the dark. With a live rattlesnake."
   "No. You left me alone. In the car. For a live rattlesnake," I countered. "So I guess that makes us even." There was a long pause as he stared at me. "But I forgive you?" I said. 

There are one or two parts that I recognise from my avid trawlings of Jenny Lawson's blog, but not many. I suppose it's almost inevitable though - she's only led one life, after all, there's bound to be a little cross-over.

I have to admit that the book did go downhill a little bit towards the end. It started to get less funny and more about her anxiety disorder. It's obviously a very important part of her life, but it was a bit repetitive. Also, the ending itself disintegrates into a generic, soppy memoir and it did make me lose interest a little. I was reading this for amusement, not pseudo-poignant musings on memories and reputation.

That said, I still loved this book - I can't really explain how funny it is without you reading it yourself (which I highly recommend doing). It was difficult to not just post quote after quote for this review, because that's pretty much all my notebook page for this review consists of. Just buy this - I dare you not to snuffle.

Visit The Bloggess, or find Jenny Lawson on Twitter. 

Review: We Bought A Zoo by Benjamin Mee

We Bought A Zoo has recently been turned into a film starring Matt Damon and Scarlett Johansen; we all know that. However, I'd like to point out that this was one of my favourite books before they raped it in movie-form. Also, despite how much I love this cover, it still took me a good few minutes to work out why there is a blue lion's head emerging from the 'O.' Answer: There isn't; it's an ostrich. You know, I once hallucinated and saw a bear at the bus stop too... *shakes head sadly*

LATER: In fact, I love this book so much I've just bought a signed copy - supporting Dartmoor Zoological Park AND owning something amazing, all at the same happy time!

Plot summary: In June 2004 journalist Benjamin Mee was living a peaceful existence in the south of France. Benjamin, his wife Katherine and their two young children Ella and Milo had just made the final commitment to their new life by selling their home in London and buying two stone barns amidst the beautiful landscape of Languedoc. All this was about to change though, when Benjamin decided to buy a decrepit zoo in Dartmoor...

Benjamin's story is a remarkable tale about anxious wolves, awkward creditors, escaping big cats, the power of family and the triumph of hope over tragedy.

So I watched the film and actually kind of liked it - you know, in that grudging acceptance you give when you can't really remember the book it was based on but don't want to admit it. Anyway, it did make me want to read We Bought A Zoo again... to it's own detriment. Comparing the two, there's just no contest. None. This isn't a place for a movie rant; this is a book review, but one clearly, clearly clearly outshines the other.

I love this book so much I want to buy it dinner, lick it and curl up in bed with it (in that order, because I'm a lady). I literally don't have a bad word about it, and I am made of bad words. I might even put that on my gravestone - 'Here lies Hanna: she is made of bad words.'

*cough* Anyway. You don't need to be a fan of animals, memoirs or zoos to love this book, because it seems to fit into a category of its own. Parts of it are so funny that I actually snorted my tea on one memorable, but not particularly attractive, occasion. There's a general tone of cheerfulness and hope, even in the worst possible scenarios, that you just can't fail to be uplifted and cheered by.

I combed the lighting section again at emergency speed, eyes scanning systematically up and down the rows of frilly pink bedside lights, glass ladies holding a single bulb, and of course, fairy lights. I tried to broaden my mission statement; would any of this lighting work as a compromise? I pictured our grizzled team working in a dank corridor with angle grinders and tigers in the next bay, and imagined their faces as I presented them with a Disney character desk lamp. No.

I was actually snuffling to myself as I typed that out (yes, I snuffle when amused. It's endearing, clearly).

Ah, the animals. I can't even explain how much I genuinely and desperately want to work in a zoo now. It's easy to tell the deep affection and respect Benjamin Mee has for those in his care - he may have bought the zoo on a whim, but it's obvious he doesn't take his responsibilities lightly. I actually feel like I know some of those animals now, as each is referred to by name along with a few interesting facts along the way.

The movie is worth watching, but don't think there's no need to read the book. There is. There really, very much, is. For one thing, the book is vehemently British, so I have no idea why they felt the need to Americanize it. Secondly, there's a lot of unnecessary romance shovelled into the film and it seemed irrelevant and also kind of disrespectful to Benjamin Mee's wife. Admittedly I may not have been so irritated about it if I hadn't already read the book, but hey ho.

Read my review of a similar book, Babylon's Ark: The Incredible Wartime Rescue of the Baghdad Zoo, or visit Benjamin Mee's zoo, Dartmoor Zoological Park. 

Review: Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor

Signs of Life was a completely random pick from Sheffield Library's shelves last week. I have absolutely no idea what prompted me to pick it up other than a desperate need to avoid going home empty handed, but it wouldn't be a usual choice for me.

This is Natalie Taylor's story. It starts the day her husband dies and ends sixteen months later on their son's first birthday.

Natalie's journey from wife to widow to mother is heartbreaking, blackly funny and will move you to laughter and tears as she makes it across that finish line. And you have no doubt she will make it because Natalie is a warrior and a woman to cheer for.

I can't help but cringe as I type out that summary. It's just awful. Although it's fairly accurate about the plot, the tone of the book is absolutely nothing like that. To start, it's not funny. It's just not, in any way, shape or form. Secondly, the last sentence makes Signs of Life seem like some empowering, feminist self-help novel about coping with grief, and it's not that either. It's just a perfectly average woman writing about the sixteen months after her husband, Josh, dies. I wouldn't describe her as a warrior and yes, she is a woman to cheer for - but so is every widowed, pregnant newly-wed.  

The theory goes that every word of this book (minus a few name changes) is completely identical to her diary entries of the time, but obviously I'm not sure how true that is. On one hand, some parts (particularly the ending) seem so unrealistically twee that I can't help but think they're completely fictional. They just tie in too neatly with the whole 'woman finding herself after tragedy' shtick, if you know what I mean.

On the other hand, there are parts that I most certainly would have edited out if I were Natalie Taylor and not dedicated to preserving the truth. I understand that her husband and father of her unborn child had just been killed, but the abuse she subjects her in-laws to in this book is horrendous. She just can't seem to understand that Josh's other family members are suffering too - she doesn't appreciate anything they do for her and constantly insults their very personalities. She's just so ungrateful and whiny. I'm not criticising her attitude per se - obviously I've never been widowed at 24 and so can't judge the feelings of those who have. I just wonder at her judgement in choosing to publish something that can only serve to alienate those trying to help her.

Why are these people more popular than Marianne Pearl? Why don't we interview Marianne Pearl? (I know, I know, Oprah did interview Marianne Pearl, which is why we never judge Oprah). Still, so sickening. So frustrating. I just feel like I am the one who should be rich and famous, not them. I am going through this horrible fucking situation; doesn't the universe owe me something? Don't I get to be on Oprah?

Mrs Taylor is also incredibly judgemental about anybody who isn't... well, Mrs Taylor. She joins a support group for single mothers and spends the entire time complaining how their situations can't possibly relate to hers because she's not a) 18 (in fact, she's an oh-so-worldly 24) and b) she didn't choose to raise her baby alone. This actually grated on me quite a lot - who says that the other women there were responsible for their own situations? Natalie does eventually come to terms with this, but for me the damage was already done.

Anyway. It's a very accessible read and I did get In The Book Zone while reading it. It uses a very chatty tone and it's easy to get sucked in. The English teacher aspects of the book are interesting, if not always relevant, as she talks a lot about the books they're studying in class, like The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter. Thing is, unlike most books about books, she actually explains what they're actually about instead of assuming you already know. Must be the English teacher in her coming out. Her opinions of her students are also interesting, but it says a lot that the thing I liked most about Signs of Life are the parts unrelated to the actual topic.   

This is my superhero alter ego. I go around the world finding people who commit social injustices and I attack them with copies of literary classics to teach them a lesson. The kid who is suspended for racial slurs? I break into his bedroom in the middle of the night, knock out a few of his teeth, and leave him with a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. The parents who get arrested because they let their twelve-year-old throw a party without their supervision and the kids break into the liquor cabinet? I visit the parents in their holding cell to drop off two copies of Lord of the Flies.

The best way I can explain it is that I liked Signs of Life, but not Natalie Taylor. I finished it in a day and a half, but it's not something I'd ever want to read again. 

Visit Natalie Taylor's blog here or find her on Twitter. 

Review: What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

I seem to be going through a bit of an adoption/abortion/infertility kick lately, it's strange. In a row, we've gone from The Dead-Tossed Waves (adoption), through Handle with Care (adoption and abortion) to end up with What Alice Forgot (adoption and infertility). Isn't it strange how you end up picking up books with similar themes completely unintentionally?

Imagine losing the most important ten years of your life …

Alice is twenty-nine.She adores sleep, chocolate, and her ramshackle new house.She’s newly engaged to the wonderful Nick and is pregnant with her first baby. There’s just one problem. All that was ten years ago …

Alice has slipped in a step-aerobics class, hit her head and lost a decade.Now she’s a grown-up, bossy mother of three in the middle of a nasty divorce and her beloved sister Elisabeth isn’t speaking to her.This is her life but not as she knows it. Clearly Alice has made some terrible mistakes.Just how much can happen in a decade? Can she ever get back to the woman she used to be?

I borrowed this from the library weeks and weeks ago, but never bothered actually picking it up to read it. I only chose it because my usual city library was closed for renovation so I was in a little village version that basically only carried large-print books for the elderly and YA books in an optimistic yet doomed to fail attempt to get the drug-addled teenagers to read. I was pretty desperate so I grabbed the two books that looked even vaguely readable and left. I read the other one, Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book on the train home (my review's here, see?) and as my review was posted on July 29th, it means I've had What Alice Forgot on my shelf for at least six weeks. I swear, I bet the library wishes they'd never given me a damn card in the first place.

Anyway, I've read it now and I can't say my life has been enriched. I mean, it's alright, but it isn't quite sure what it's meant to be. It's part-chick lit and part- serious family saga.. It's perfectly readable and I don't regret the time spent doing so, but I'd have preferred it if it chose a genre and stuck with it. 

There was only one likeable character in the whole book - Alice's sister, Elizabeth. I found Alice to be whiny, Nick to be rude, Barb to be oblivious and Alice's new friends so be so obnoxious I wanted to punch them. I know that the whole point of the book is to show how Alice's life has gone completely to pot due to her failed relationships, but I couldn't even muster sympathy for the heroine. 

The ending seemed a little anti-climactic to me. Because the book starts with young Alice, that seemed 'correct' in a way. It read as though that version of Alice had leaped forward, instead of the older Alice looking back. Because of this, it seemed like the happy ending should be young Alice back in her old body, vowing not to make the same mistakes again or whatever. When that didn't happen, it just seemed kind of boring.

I don't mean to slate this book. It wasn't at all as bad as I've accidentally made it sound. It's just one of those books that you enjoyed reading but you don't particularly feel the need to ever pick up again.

Review: How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran

Regular readers of Booking In Heels will remember the domestic strife and distress caused by The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (see here) at Hanna Manor. Unfortunately, the Siege of the Dragon Tattoo may as well have been fought with sticks and stones compared to the epic War of the Woman - Sheffield government was nearly forced to evacuate the city for fear of nuclear fallout.  

1913 – Suffragette throws herself under the King’s horse.

1969 – Feminists storm Miss World.

NOW – Caitlin Moran rewrites The Female Eunuch from a bar stool and demands to know why pants are getting smaller. 

There’s never been a better time to be a woman: we have the vote and the Pill, and we haven’t been burnt as witches since 1727. However, a few nagging questions do remain… Why are we supposed to get Brazilians? Should you get Botox? Do men secretly hate us? What should you call your vagina? Why does your bra hurt? And why does everyone ask you when you’re going to have a baby? 

Part memoir, part rant, Caitlin Moran answers these questions and more in How To Be A Woman – following her from her terrible 13th birthday (‘I am 13 stone, have no friends, and boys throw gravel at me when they see me’) through adolescence, the workplace, strip-clubs, love, fat, abortion, TopShop, motherhood and beyond.

The word 'feminism' strikes fear into the heart of the Whitehead-Parkinson household - a brief mention of the word makes us freeze in terror and then lunge for the nearest lightsaber. Then we do battle with the dark side - cause 'dis shit just got real, yo.  Or at least until Luke Skywalker ends up crying in a corner and refusing to speak until Darth Vader brings him some cheesecake.

It all started because I mumbled something about how much I liked the book and how I saw Caitlin Moran as a 'sensible feminist.' By that, I mean she doesn't hate men or want them to change in any away, she doesn't think all porn should be banned and is happy to wear a dress and make-up. She just thinks that women should be seen as completely equal to men, and not have to bear the brunt of sexist comments and attitudes. Because that's what feminism is - just the desire for equal rights and respect.

I think that was the reasoning behind our argument. The-Boy-Whom-I-Love-When-He-Pacifies-Me-With-Cheesecake believes that feminism is now unnecessary because women already have the same rights as men, in everything. We've been able to vote for nearly a century and have access to the same educational and occupational resources. Women don't feel slighted until they read books like this one, and are then brainwashed into looking for problems that aren't there. I can kind of see his point - I wasn't overly concerned with these issues until I read this book (and a similar one last year - Female Chauvinist Pigs) and I wouldn't have called myself a feminist either. But now, after having the concept explained to me by Ms Moran, I know that feminism isn't about not shaving your legs, refusing to make dinner on an evening or over-reacting to a male flirt. I know that's the publicly accepted definition, but it's wrong - thus, we argue.

Regardless of where you stand on feminism, this book is hilarious. I laughed out loud in a number of public places. A lot of reviewers have said that, I know, but just to put it in perspective - I am not a giggler. My natural expression is somewhere between Blackadder and Queen Victoria, with a dash of Pol Pot. I just don't like... things. But God, this book is funny.

But for some women, flirting's just... how it comes out. It's not there as a defence mechanism, or as a result of years of being unwillingly sexualised by the godddamn patriarchy. It's not a consequence. It's an action. It comes from an almost demented joy in being alive, talking to someone who isn't boring you to death, and conspiring in an unspoken, momentary, twinkly, 'I like you, and you like me. Isn't it lovely that we're being total lovelies together?' conspiracy.

Some parts of this book just make perfect sense to me. I don't agree with everything she says; of course not, but paragraphs like the above (I'm a god-made flirt, through and through. Despite the scowling.) just kind of flash at me and make me smile. I admire her for not being afraid to offend people - there are a few paragraphs where I'm sure a few people reacted badly, like the abortion section or when she talks about heaven and the afterlife. Thing is, she isn't arrogant about it. She doesn't apologise for her opinions but explains the reasons behind them in a calm and rational manner. Who can ask more than that?

'It also turns out that husbands do not read Grazia, and no matter how magnificent or loving they may be, they can't help themselves from sporadically saying '£225! For a purse! JESUS CHRIST,' as if you've just stabbed them quite violently in the balls with a fork, left the fork there, and then hung your coat on it while you go and have a bath.'

Ms Moran comes across as a normal woman - not some angry, ranting feminist nor a name-dropping celebrity wannabe. She's a little confused about the conflicting roles of women and it somehow makes her more likeable. She envies the attractive celebrities in the glossy magazines and lusts after the handbags she can never afford, just like the rest of us. She's a normal person with a normal life and it shows.

Maybe Lewis is right - maybe this book has 'brainwashed' me. But so what? I think this should be recommended reading for every person (male or female) above the age of thirteen. It might do the world a favour. I'd love to see a male version though. There's quite a few books on what it's like to be a woman, maybe it's time the men told us the gritty, gross, annoying bits of manhood.

This book was featured in - 

• The Best Books I've Read During The Lifespan Of My Blog

Read my review of Caitlin Moran's later book, Moranthology, or visit her website here.

Review: Chocolate & Vicodin: My Quest For Relief From The Headache That Wouldn't Go Away by Jennette Fulda

After finishing this book, I did the one thing I never do before writing a review - I read other people's reviews. I hate doing that, because I don't want my review to be influenced by their's. But in this case, I had suspicions about the people who were reading Chocolate & Vicodin that turned out to be correct - it's usually those who are in chronic pain themselves.

Amazon - Jennette Fulda went to bed on February 17, 2008, with a headache, and more than three years later, it still hasn’t gone away. Yes, she’s tried everything: intravenous drugs, chiropractic adjustments, acupuncture, subliminal messaging, marijuana (for medical purposes only), heavy drinking (which just made it hurt more), and lots and lots of chocolate. A pint of ice cream makes her feel better, but her insurance doesn’t cover mint chocolate chip. As she visits countless doctors, indulges all manner of unsolicited advice from the Internet, and investigates every possible cause, from a brain tumor to a dead twin living in her brain, Jennette considers what it means to suffer, how to live with pain, and why the best treatment might be the simplest: laughter. 

While I was correct about the people who were reading this book, I was wrong about their resulting opinions. Don't get me wrong, I read it for the same reason - I have Lupus and CFS/ME and have lived in constant pain and exhaustion for over two years (yes, I had to say it, I'm one of those people), but while most of those other reviewers completely emapthised with Ms Fulda, I really didn't.

She has a headache. To be fair to her, one of the points she makes is how the majority of people dismiss her illness as nothing because headaches are so common, and I'm kind of doing just that. I accept how dehabiliting headaches must be and I can't imagine how horrible it must be to have one constantly for that length of time. But the fact is... she's not dying, she doesn't need any huge, complicated operation and she has complete physical use of her body. It's not the same as every other sufferer out there.

Jennette does accept that there are others suffering from chronic pain out there, but subtley implies that her pain is just as bad. Doctors have frequently told her that her condition is not not life-threatening, she'll never need an organ donation and her ability to have children isn't impaired... and yet she won't stop whining. She comes across as smug that she belongs to the Pain Club and you couldn't possibly understand because you aren't in pain and she is.

Most readers responded to tell me they were glad I was feeling good, but several people asked the same question, "Did they ever figure out what was wrong?"
I sighed. I felt like a mother with a talkative todler who kept asking why. Why is the sky blue? Why don't snakes have legs? Why does Jennette have a headache? There was no answer to this particular why, or if there was, we weren't going to know it anytime soon.

Oh shut up. If your readers are offering their support, it's not fair to compare them to irritating toddlers. She constantly attacks everybody who tries to suggest treatment or even offers sympathy, be it her family, co-workers or just readers of her blog, but then complains when people don't acknowledge how much pain she's in. You just can't win with this woman. It wouldn't be too bad (I've certainly snapped at a few people during bad days), but she's actually nasty to them.

However, roughly 5/6 of the way through the book, her attitude changes. She finally, finally accepts that pain is a part of her life and starts to moves on. I actually felt happy for her that her headache had begun to lessen because she became a much more likeable author.

At certain points, I did empathise with her and I'm sure that's why so many people with chronic pain adored her book. Holier-than-thou attitude aside, she obviously does have a serious problem with pain and some of her expressions about dealing with a disease that nobody else can see are very apt.

It also amazed me that a force so overbearingly destructive and constantly present in my life could be invisible to others. I was stuck in some twisted version of The Emperor's New Clothes in which I really did have some invisible clothes, only they were woven out of steel wool.

I enjoyed the book as a whole because she can write very, very well. There are parts where I actually giggled out loud, and that's not normal with a pain memoir. I'm even tempted to take a look at her weight-loss memoir, just because I like the way she writes.

"All right, you were twenty-one. You were pulled over by the cops. You took Inderal. Six years later you were designing your webs. The headache returns. What changed?" He was talking more to himself than me, looking at the wall in front of him. His ponderings reminded me of a detective in a murder mystery. By the end of the appointment I expected to learn that the butler had caused my headache.

Her reports of the various treatments she tried are very thorough and very accessible to those who don't have experience with medical treatments. She was went to accupuncturists, chiropractors, sinus-specialists and everything else you could think of, always promptly reporting back on her accompanying hopes and irritations. It never gets repetetive or boring and those parts make great reading.
_______________________________________________________
I've done that thing again, where I slated a book I actually enjoyed. I'm sorry Jennette. I did like your book. I think my own perceptions and situation affecting my reading in a negative light, and that's my own fault.

Note to self: do not read non-fiction due to argumentative nature.