I started reading Let's Pretend This Never Happened a few weeks ago, because it was on the wall of librarian picks. Boy, what a dud. I had to stop reading it, which I almost never do. But I've reached the point in my life where I don't have to finish books that are not worth my time. It's uneven and self-indulgent, and it's simply not funny enough. There are some good bits, like the time her dad woke them up to show them the squirrel puppet he had just made, and referring to intestines as "the poop rope," but it's all so self-aware, like she's so pleased with how unique she is, and her family is SO SHOCKING AND DIFFERENT. It's a shockbrag. Well, as the moral of the classic fable "Duckbilled Platypus vs. Beefsnakstick" taught us, just because you have a lot of stuff, don't think you're so special.
It reminded me a lot of the Heather Armstrong book I read, in that the voice that charms in short-form writing becomes unbearably grating in long-form writing. Is this true of all bloggers-cum-memoirists/novelists? It makes me fearful for my own hoped-for authorial career.
