I love memoirs. They read like fiction but they’re true stories. Something about their being true makes the story incredibly engaging. It’s almost enough to pull me away from fiction.
Until I read flops like this one and get discouraged from that. Though it had so much potential (despite the tragedy of it, the author’s life has given her great writing material) this was a terrible memoir for two main reasons:
A: It’s choppy.
There’s no coherence to it. It’s almost impossible to know in what order the events she’s describing happened. Her story sounds like a drunk person who tries to tell a joke but ruins the punchline because she says it first. Reading it was not in any way enjoyable. Perhaps it’s morbid to expect to be entertained by a tragic memoir. Don’t judge me. You all stare at car wrecks, too.
B: It feels fake.
This is supposedly a story about grief. Christa’s twin, Cara, goes on a downward spiral of drug addiction and self-hatred, and eventually dies of an overdose. Christa is a mess. But when she writes about Cara when she’s alive, it’s almost like she can’t stand her. She never has anything flattering to say. There is very little appearance that they love each other, frankly. They’re portrayed as close, but it always seems like it’s almost reluctantly–at times, cruel or vindictive. It makes her grief seem embellished and fake.
I was so incredibly frustrated by this book. Perhaps I’m insensitive. It is, after all, the author’s way of dealing with her grief. But for a memoir, it lacked the genuineness one would like to expect from a true story. There are probably hundreds better memoirs you can find. Pass on this one.