Friday, June 11, 2010


I do love a good memoir. Unfortunately for any memoir, I measure them against the writings of Frank McCourt, which makes for a rather unfair standard. Frank McCourt is amazing. Really amazing. For a memoir, being compared to Frank McCourt is like being told to paint a picture with the knowledge that you will be compared against Renoir. It's really just not fair. But have you read his books? He mixes tragedy and comedy so perfectly. I have found myself laughing and crying AT THE SAME TIME while reading his books. If you haven't read them, I highly recommend each one. They truly are phenomenal.

Anyway, the point is that I am currently splitting my time between two memoirs (and The Book Thief. It's an obnoxious little bugger, always begging for attention, but I don't want to hurt its feelings), one by Kristin Chenowith and the other by Ellen Degeneres. I'm enjoying them both (sort of), but am having varying amounts of success getting through them. Ms. Chenowith's is cute and breezy, like her, but I'm finding a hard time really caring. It just isn't as engaging as I might like. I read it because she is a goddess on Broadway and because I someday plan to steal her vocal cords for my own. Ellen Degeneres's book is side-splittingly funny, but is written as a string of essays, rather than as a narrative, which I always find a bit unnerving. I get emotionally involved in a story, and suddenly it changes, and we never get any resolution. What on earth is a girl to do?

Oh dear, I seem to have never come to the point. I'm not entirely sure I had one in the first place.

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