Jan. 8, 2020

Avoiding having a panic attack at the gym. Call it progress. I was able to breathe through the headlines of possible war unfurling themselves on the TV screen inches away from the sweating faces of treadmill runners. I lost my elliptical machine as I stepped out of the room, but there’s plenty more where that came from.

I think I’ll make cauliflower pizza tonight for dinner. It’s been awhile since I did that one. Oh, sorry. Am I boring you? Well, sorry. Sometimes there’s not a whole lot of material to work with, but you still endeavor to write every day. And so you talk about cauliflower pizza.

I couldn’t believe it. My mind had switched over as if I’d pushed the radio dial from AM to FM. I found myself not craving career distinction. The dream of another framed degree seemed common, no accomplishment at all. In its place, was the contorted squalling wail of a newborn. How did that get there? When did Justin Casey sneak between the gyri of my lobes? A phase maybe. But, sometimes your alarm goes off and you find that the hour was much later than you though.

Jan. 7, 2020 Part II

I’m considering going to therapy. I don’t know why that’s difficult to write. Therapy is a natural, healthy thing and many many people enjoy it and benefit from it. Am I person who needs and would gain something from therapy? I think so.

Things tend to get tangled in my brain. I am usually able to think them through eventually and get on the “right” side of up, but sometimes it takes longer than others. And often I go kicking and screaming, sometimes literally. I’m sometimes a difficult person to be around, and I witness myself acting with cruelty and childishness and still can’t interrupt the cycle.

Been exercising lately. Every day this year actually. Feels good. Clears the head space. Tamps down that anxiety so that I can breathe a little more free. That’s a kind of therapy, right?

Back on the veggie diet. It’s good for me. I don’t feel so guilty about existing. And honestly, meat doesn’t much appeal to me. I have moments of weakness for sure. I think I’ll always look at a burger with a bit of wanting, but things like Beyond and Impossible make it easier to turn away.

And then…obviously, if you view the time stamps of this blog, you can see it’s been awhile. I’m trying to get more out there. Whether private or public it doesn’t matter. It’s just that I do the writing. That’s therapy too. So I guess until I get in to a real professional, this will hold me over.

Gotta get my wisdom teeth out too. That to-do list. It’s killer.

Writing seems a lot more difficult when there’s not that endless stream of relationship drama to fall back on as a topic. It’s a blessing and a curse as they would say. Still haven’t changed my last name. Honestly…I may never get around to it. I’m not against a new one, but why change when my OG name is adequate? I published under it, graduated under it, lived and breathed under it…I’ve earned it, I think.

I look back on some of these entries, and I have no memory of writing these things. I wonder what this person (this 25, 27, 29 year old) was going through. It all seemed very intense. It’s not that the intensity has diminished from these 31 year olds days. Everything just looks a little different. The days are long but the years are short. Everything seems very important, but all a bit distant.

Is there anyone out there? Just nod if you can hear me.

Jan. 7, 2020

Nuclear War is such a bore.

I haven’t even read all my shelved books, like Kafka On The Shore.

Laugh, I suppose, because what other choice do we got?

Fears have shifted from our planet heating up or casually being shot.

I have some dreams, sure.

Wanted to own a home, start a family, see what age looks like, and maybe publish something of note.

But the future is now, and what I write now is wrote.

Generation Y, millennial, but one in the same with the rest of us.

We share a world, an interconnected survival, and…

I guess all I’m saying is “wouldn’t it be nice if this wasn’t the end?”

Power in Ambivalence

Power in Ambivalence

book review on


“Nonsense: The Power of Not Knowing” by Jamie Holmes

Is there power in not knowing? What do we gain when we are in the dark, confused, and unsure about where a string of events or our lives in general are going?

Nonsense: The Power of Not Knowing by Jamie Holmes assures the reader that strength can come from ambiguity and ambivalence if we only know how to harness the doubt.

In this slim volume of 230 pages of heavily researched text (and an additional 100 plus pages of notes) there is a blend of science, history and modern events that couple to illustrate Holmes’ point that perhaps not knowing everything is a good thing. Being willing to be a patient person who doesn’t crave the closure most humans are hard-wired to go through hell and back to receive, can pay off in the workplace as well as for a more fulfilling life.

Holmes struggles with the point he may be trying to make through his series of complex speech and examples. Maybe it’s no coincidence that a book on ambiguity and confusion is an indefinite and unclear thing. Go figure.

Examples to make the point that sometimes there is no hard and fast point on things are pulled from various places including the Waco, Texas incident with the Branch Davidians; the unpopularity of Midi’s in the late 60’s and 70’s; Ducati racing and improvement strategies; natural disasters and our perspectives after the fact; card decks that aren’t all they appear to be at face value; and the very real and very terrifying over testing that happens in the medical field every day. The most effective of these examples comes across in the chapter, “Fifty Days in Texas” that highlights the negotiations behind Waco, what went right, and why things went terribly wrong when closure was seized too firmly and grey areas were miscoded to disastrous consequences.

The book is broken into three parts that include: “Making Sense,” “Handing Ambiguity,” and “Embracing Uncertainty.” Holmes uses these three parts to try and make sense of the confusion, and overall satisfies this reader.

Even with the complexity of getting through the book, the work is interesting and entertaining. I come away from the book with no solid conclusion on anything, and an inability to say anything for certain. In this respect, Holmes has succeeded in creating Nonsense.

Irreverence Entry #1: Born Awkward…Just Like Everyone Else

Irreverence Entry#1: “Born to be Awkward,” a photo/comedy book, by Mike Bender and Doug Chernack

borntobeFrom the authors who brought you Awkward Family Photos, Awkward Family Postcards, Awkward Family Holiday Photos, and (yes!) Awkward Family Pet Photos comes a new addition: “Born to Be Awkward.” If you liked any of the variety of Awkward Family photography mentioned above, you won’t be disappointed with the new arrival, as it follows in the same format and invocation of our intrigue with looking at photos that remind us of our own awkward families. But this time…there are babies.

It’s a short “read” of mostly pictures with small captions, and I breezed through it in about 30 minutes during some quality family time in which my brother and his girlfriend watched football, and my dad phubbed us all as he checked the Facebook feed.

“Born to be Awkward” is composed of the best of Awkward Family Photos of the wee little ones, babies, spawn, etc. And who doesn’t love babies? Well, actually quite a few people…but who doesn’t love pictures of babies looking terrified, being distressed, and generally failing hard at being a small human? Right! That’s more like it!

Why do we enjoy looking at awfully composed photos of families that we don’t know? Why do we laugh when we see parents in Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore costumery with their progeny in the middle of traumatic childhood scaring photographic evidence? Why will we scroll for hours through AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com to see children screaming on the laps of Donnie Darko-esque Easter Bunnies or glamour shots that remind us painfully of an era where our shame paled in comparison with the size of our teased hair?

Photos themselves capture our essence at any given moment in time. Even a bad photo, selfie, or glamour shot is still a record, a documentation, of us. Everyone has heard the idea that photographs steal a piece of our soul, and this is true at the most basic level, because photographs are, undeniably, an impression of us that will most likely (especially in the digital age) survive our physical bodies.

Photos also allow us to see ourselves through a different eye than that of the mirror. Sometimes we glimpse ourselves in a way we have never considered before. In this way, photos reveal a part of ourselves that is otherwise inaccessible.

More to the point though, why are the Awkward Family photo book series such a hit? My theory is that in addition to photos providing proof of our existence, and allowing us perspective, photos (of the nature in the Awkward books especially) allow us a shared experience with humankind on a larger scale.

In some capacity or another, we all have families. And our families sometimes do things that make us groan, or laugh, or gasp, or any other manner of reaction. Having photographic record that these emotions extend beyond ourselves and are part of the larger human condition is a relief and a fun way to relate to humans for even the most antisocial of us out there.

To say it another way, family is a lot like poop.

Stay with me here please….

On Facebook the other day, I was commenting on Burger King’s Halloween Whopper (that monstrous meat-thing with the black bun) and how it turns your poop a terrifying shade of green. Subsequently, I got a more than average response on this post from friends who could relate to the topic at hand. People were telling me of times they had green poop, or how they liked to study poop for health concerns, or other foods that turned poop colors. In short, everyone poops and everyone has a family. It’s a common ground on which we can usually form a minimalist human connection. This is the connection that forms the bridge of small talk that leads to the ground where we become friends, lovers, etc. Relatable moments within family groups (and poop) brings us closer together as a species.

Anyways…the photos that I could relate to in “Born to Be Awkward” were the ones that I enjoyed the most. It’s a little known fact that sometimes newborn babies are not very good looking. They take a few days to sort of “pink up” and adjust to the conditions outside of mom. I was definitely one of these unattractive newborns, with my wayward punk rock assemblage of black hair, my arms covered with rolls of fat like the Michelin Tire mascot, and beady, souless eyes that give me the shivers even to this day. Seeing some of the other bewildered and frazzled babies in this book make me feel better about being a late bloomer.

Comedically speaking, it’s not that hard to get a laugh out of me. The pictures of toddlers in mid-freefall, hovering inches above the ground because they were squireling around when the cameraman was adjusting, and are about to pay the price, are gold. And “Born to be Awkward” provides plenty of these within.

There’s some sibling shots I can definitely relate to. Namely the ones where the older sister is pushing the brother out of the shot or clamping a hand over his mouth, eyes, all airways, etc. Oh yeah, I totally did that. And the re-creation shots with side by side photos of the childhood pose and the present day subject in the same pose are good for a chuckle.

What I considered a big negative of this book was the last chapter; 11 pages that contain no photos whatsoever, but rather glossy photostock pages of photo frames where you can chronicle photos of “My Awkward Baby.”

Look, if I’m going to pay full retail price of $15 for this book, I do not want 11 essentially blank pages to include the product of my reproduction skills (baby) with this lot of clown babies that have been offered up for the amusement and scorn of the entire world. Those photos of my own (hypothetical) child are sacred, and to be kept within the photo album and away from the harsh, laughing world. These photos are for my family and I to look upon and fondly share the inside jokes, and flaws we have grown up with and taken an entire childhood to make peace with. These photos….these photos are OUR AWKWARD.

We’ll probably pull them out years later when the girlfriend/boyfriend comes over to the house though. I mean…it’s only fair. Because some family traditions are worth relating.

File Under Awkard in the thesaurus: amateurish, rude, stiff, all thumbs, artless, blundering, bulky, bumbling, bungling, butterfingers, coarse, floundering, gawky, graceless, green, having two left feet, having two left hangs, incompetent, inept, inexpert, klutzy, lumbering, maladroit, oafish, stumbling, uncouth, uncoordinated, unfit, ungainly, ungraceful, unhandy, unpolished, unrefined, unskilled.

I received and reviewed a complementary copy of this book as part of the Blogging For Books program.

This is the first entry in a new blog effort called Irreverent Thesaurus. Please visit and follow irreverentthesaurus.wordpress.com for more.

The Space Opera That Just Sort of Spaced Out


Book Review



The Space Opera That Just Sort of Spaced Out

Everything was there for Armada. A great set-up, a semi-likable (albeit flawed) hero, and something not quite right on a quest that would change not only this hero’s journey, but also, the world, forever.

Only, when put into practice, Armada is painfully dull. The characters are flimsy and soggy as wet cardboard. The action sequences read like instruction manuals. The pop-culture references that made Ernest Cline’s first novel a hit are leaned heavily upon, and, more often than not, fail to connect. Because of these things, all the novel’s signature moves and climactic revelations take a steep nosedive, crash, and burn.

Armada had a high bar to clear to begin with. Cline’s first novel, Ready Player One, was brilliant. Easily holding a place in my top 10 favorite book list, the novel has intelligence, humor, and a cleverness that sets it apart. Yet, Ready Player One does have shortcomings. The most notable is the lack of realness, depth, and interest in his characters that is needed. This flaw came out big time in Armada with the main character Zack, and extended throughout. Zack’s mentor shows up in the beginning, offers some sage wisdom, and departs the book almost entirely. The rest of the characters function in a similar manner where they do what is predictable and cliche, and spin the machine of deus ex machina that the story revolves upon.

Because of this, a lot of the book is description of battles and how the larger arc of the alien invaders society and the Earth Defense Alliance (EDA) work. Without characters to make these things relevant, it’s hard to focus on caring about these things. This made the book extremely tedious to finish. Armada calls itself a “space opera” when it comes to genre, but it didn’t deliver in the tradition of the most famous space opera that it references repeatedly: Star Wars.

The redeeming point of Armada is that the ideas are solid and fresh. The aliens that are the villains in this book are intelligent and formidably foes. The ties to present day society and the cultural landmarks as well as nerdom history are thoughtfully incorporated. I appreciate them even though I feel like I only recognized about 90% of them.

Overall, Armada feels like it was rushed to publication. A revision with some support for the characters and some paring down of the history behind all the workings of the forces behind the forces in the book would have greatly benefited the work. I’m still very much a fan of what Ernest Cline does. He also seems like just a really cool guy. I hope the theatrical version of Ready Player One will be only the beginning of his rise in popular fiction. I hope that Armada sails under the radar and flies far….far away.

I received a complimentary copy of this book via Blogging for Books. This, in no way, influenced my review of above work.


obliqueERNEST CLINE is a novelist, screenwriter, father, and full-time geek. His first novel, Ready Player One, was a New York Times and USA Today bestseller, appeared on numerous “best of the year” lists, and is set to be adapted into a motion picture by Warner Bros. and director Steven Spielberg. Ernie lives in Austin, Texas, with his family, a time-traveling DeLorean, and a large collection of classic video games.



I was about 18 or 19, and working at scaring people at a local haunted house. It was a turbulent time for me. I’d tried working at the high end coffee shop in our local tourist trap location called affectionately “the art district;” called less affectionately a place for coffee snobs with more money than manners.

I didn’t fit in, and after dresscode debacles and an unfortunate incident involving a case or Orangina and a flight of stairs, I called and desperately informed the manager that I “simply couldn’t come to work today…or rather ever.” I was also trying in vane to be a chemistry major, I recall. It was a rocky time.

And so I applied to be a ghoul at the “Haunted Cavern,” because maybe I wouldn’t find purpose in my work, but hell…scaring people for money sounded like something I could at least try my hand at. (It was closer to my eventual profession as teacher than I’d realize)

With a couple of years of local theater productions under my belt, I landed a main character role in the scaring show. I was one of two women chosen to be the “dead mother” in a background story of deranged family members eating people or something similar. The lady who was my partner in the ride was very in character. I seem to remember that there was a lot of dead-eye staring at all hours.

There was always an abundance of time before the haunted house opened each night. We would get on-site before dark, dress in 10 minutes, and then wait two hours for darkness to fall, the lines to queue up, the monies to be exchanged and our first group to be let through (followed without pause by group after group until hours later: feast or famine) But in the interim of dressing and waiting, there was a lot of time. I filled it with paperbacks, but also with watching our resident horror makeup artist transform us from relatively normal faced into open wound bearing, black puss dripping baddies.

The makeup guy was named Begunich, and my sheltered adolescence had never encountered anything quite like him. He had long hair, winding down his back, and a grisly almost foot long beard. He was covered in tattoos, had huge gauges, and always wore a back turned cap. He also did not give a fuck about any of us or anything but making the makeup on all of us look absolutely awful, impressive and resume worthy. At which attempts he was flawless.

Obviously, he was totally my type.

If my vision had been a little clearer, perhaps I could have steered clear of making myself such a fool, but what can I say? I was hooked in by the sideshow and its disdain for critical review. Perhaps, I wished to be so untouchable from judgement while simultaneously so effortlessly talented. I was sure that Begunich would show me how.

I was kidding myself. From the moment I sat in the makeup chair and he put his rough hands on my flushed girl cheeks, it was a fool’s errand. I was dismal in hiding my intrigue with him and his skills, asking questions non-stop about the make-up process. He showed me a few basics, enough to get me by with Halloween costumes, but he was also openly abrasive, rough with my face in application and makeup removal and more often than not “Mean” with a capital letter.

My thoughts were not worth hearing to him except for comedic purposes. I was frequently dismissed, cursed at, and ignored. Perhaps my obvious crush disconcerted him, but the behavioral response was on par with bullying. Like all misunderstood, angry men, he wrote verse that he was proud enough to reveal when encountering other self-proclaimed “writers. 18, mind you, and I was writing poetry for a creative fiction class. I was stupid enough to reveal this and Begunich surprised me by asking to read a sample.

The day I brought it in, my heart was hammering. ‘Go big or go home’ as some kind of deathwish mantra, I’d written an exceedingly awful poem about him and how he used make-up to make us actors into different identities each night. Think SYMBOLISM all over the place. I don’t remember reading it aloud to him. I can’t see myself being that brave. In memory, I handed him a notebook and his eyes flicked across the page, back and froth, his mouth a tight, thin line, his eyes unreadable.

This part of memory is painful, and so I’ve dulled its edges with forgetting. I’m not sure if he scrawled the words immediately after the read in my own notebook of shame (this seems true) or he handed me the rebuttal in folded paper note form the next day. Either way, the result was the same.

He wrote a poem in response to my awful emotional sharage. It was short. It was a hip thing to do. And it was the cruelest piece of writing to assault me.

I’m no stranger to men seeking to un-empower me, wound me, and shoo me away with their written words though. In my high school geography class, the boy I had a major first crush on had his friend write me a Dear Jane letter. It went to the short sweet tune of: “Arthur doesn’t like you. He wishes you’d leave him alone.” And Arthur said he didn’t ask Michael to write the note, but, either way, I never blamed him for doing so.

High school boys generally have the emotional depth of the common thimble, and so perhaps my crush’s mouthpiece had no way of knowing how words would wound. The problem is that these “boys” never learn that compassion thing and grow into men who sling words carelessly.

Turning to tears of humiliation and a fall into the lap of hope are hardly a solution. Tears no longer move compassion like they used to.

I’ve also had a good heart beating at the hands of technology one too many times. With innovations in communications, it has been that much easier to be cowardly when it comes to truth telling in relationships. It’s so much easier to break a heart via text or email rather than to look into an actual person’s face and tell her they’d be better placed elsewhere from your life. I call it the “Backlit Screen Divide.” Because it’s hard to show your heart aching in 140 characters or less.

I’ve been broken up via text twice, and in ambiguity both times. The latter even hinted he’d knocked up some “other woman” in order to slink away from my clutches. All fabricated. It left me wondering, is it easier to lie about cheating than to honestly decline? It seems so. The ole one’two, it’s not me, it’s you.

Back to Begunich. He wrote me a very nasty little poem to divert my amorous affections towards him. I’d include it below if I still had it in my possession,  but the general gist was that: I couldn’t write well, my thoughts and writer were bland, insipid and devoid of emotion, and I should probably stop writing all together. Between the lines though, the obvious assertion was that I was all of these things; unworthy of this male’s gaze. He attacked not my writing, but my personality via a written diatribe instead of being compassionate and “man enough” to say simple: I’m just not that into you.

The trouble, heart blood, and waste that could be saved if men would just say that from time to time. No body wants to be a dick, but you really turn into something much worse when you hedge around it. What a kinder, brighter, safer place it would be if the charade to preserve how good we perceive ourselves to be was abandoned for truth and honest handling of our fellows.

The story of my time as a subhuman for hire ended shortly after Begunich delivered the killing blow. Scaring people in a damp, dark room in an early winter chill was not as amusing as it sounds. After a long, cold raining night where Begunich pinched my face before I took my spot on the conveyor belt of scares, I clocked out, stole the time card labelled “M. Begunich” from the rack where they were stored and I haven’t returned to that haunted place of memory until now.

I keep the punch card and his poetry in my mind to remind me of whatever lesson he thought he was imparting when he hastily scrawled his message to me.

Beautifully Written, Painfully Tragic


Beautifully Written, Painfully Tragic

A Book Review of “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing” by Eimear McBride

Everyone will agree that terminal illness and the care of loved ones under its duress, is a terrible, helpless time. Yet, how to convey the emotional pain and never before contemplated situations of care giving within the literature realm? What do you do when your brother can’t go to the bathroom on his own anymore? How do you respond when a loved one abuses you simply because you are family? The task is ambitious to say the least. Yet, using the unpredictable and slippery style of stream of consciousness writing and a decade of dedication in seeing the work into published status, Eimear McBride has captured elements of truth and a demand that you will feel something upon completion of reading “A Girl Is A Half-Formed Thing.”

To me, it’s no surprise that McBride searched so long to find a publisher for this work. The method of writing takes patience to read, and coupled with a painful subject matter, the work is an endurance test. Half-way through “A Girl” I felt that I was warming to the book, and the reading was actually easier now that I had found the flow. (Note: A feeling I never quite got in reading Joyce or Woolf, struggling to the end against their puzzle of words.) Yet, towards the latter half of “A Girl” I lost a lot of my steam, feeling punished by the further butchering of sentences, and the unending stream of unhappiness and hopelessness that the small cast of characters was enduring.

“A Girl” is a hard book. Hard on the reader, hard on the characters, hard all around. Yet, it’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. I felt compelled to follow along to the end with our main character (only ever identified as a less than perfect younger sister) in her interactions of love, resentment, and anguish for her older brother who had a terminal brain tumor in remission for an unknown span of time and their conservative Christian mentally/physically abusive mother.

“A Girl” has won so very many awards, and is rightly lauded. In college classrooms, this could be a useful paring with other stream of consciousness novels as a more accessible example of the form. As a book club selection, this would be a wonderful one to discuss in a group setting. For my part, I reason I read is to escape to more hopeful and fantastic places and neither is to be found here. The ending is what mainly influenced my review to give this work three stars. I’m not so soppy an American to demand a happy ending for each and every novel out there, but the end felt much like a cop-out and loose ends just left to hang.

I received this book free of charge from Blogging For Books.

Here’s a list of the awards “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing” has received:

Winner of 2014 Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction
Winner of the Goldsmiths Prize
Winner of the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the Year Award
Winner of the Desmond Elliott Prize
Winner of 2013 Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize
Shortlisted for the Dylan Thomas Prize
Shortlisted for the Folio Prize
Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, and Library Journal’s Best Books of 2014
One of Time Out New York’s Ten Best Books of 2014
Selected as one of NPR‘s 2014 Great Reads
A New York Magazine Best Book of 2014
A Boston Globe Best Book of 2014

Chicago Tribune Printers Row Journal Best Books of 2014
Star Tribune 
Best Fiction of 2014
Electric Literature 25 Best Novels of 2014 
Largehearted Boy
 Favorite Novels of 2014
The New York Times Book Review 100 Notable Books of 2014
Vanity Fair 11 Best Books of 2014

McCarthy finds the art within the process of “practicing” medicine

The Real Doctor Will See Your Shortly by Matt McCarthy

the-real-doctor-will-see-you-shortly-jacket I’m not sure about other people’s parents, but for my own experience, my parents were always sure (even years after I graduated college) that I’d missed my calling to go into medicine. My father still thinks that it would be merely a matter of time put into the years of medical school that stands between me and the Dr. before my name.

McCarthy makes it very clear that it takes a lot more than ambitions to make it in medicine. His memoir of his first year of residency at Columbia Hospital is a poignant and honest look at the grueling days, nights, weekends, and holidays that medical professionas devote to trying to save human lives. The connections they make, the pressure they are under, the unthinkable decisions they commit to are all indescribable, but McCarthy does a good job in trying to convey some of the weight.

Why does this book matter? Simply because McCarthy is who he is and is honest about the experience. McCarthy is not some George Clooney from ER type. He’s anxious, self-preoccupied, unsure, middle-aged and socially amiss. He is a real character you feel you can relate to, empathize with, and ultimately want to hear his story.

The takeaway from this book is all in the title. When Mccarthy started his first year of residency, he was not a real doctor. Through the relationships he forged and the blood, sweat and tears he put into his work, he became the real doctor in question. Informative, interesting, and shyly funny “The Real Doctor Will See You Shortly” is just what the doctor ordered.

Spinster’s Beautiful Cover Design Draws More Interest Than Content

spinsterSpinster’s Beautiful Cover Design Draws More Interest Than Content

a book review by

Erica Tuggle

If we were judging Spinster by its book cover, this one would be a home run. The attractive, young looking woman on the front, proclaiming spinster-hood seems like a battle cry feminists can rally behind. Not to mention that this design is coupled with the well-written book blurb within the inside flap of the book, promising us insight into why over 100 million women (and growing) are electing to forgo marriage in favor of more freedom; ignoring the choice set before all females from the earliest playtime imaginings, who to marry and when?

With such a high bar to clear, a bar of such intrigue, it was highly disappointing to find that this book missed the mark. Spinster promised to include Kate Bolick’s story of electing to remain single and embrace all the opportunities it affords, but in actuality, the book leans heavily on the memoir aspect and lightly on pertinent interesting information.

Bolick, 45, (pictured on the cover, and looking all of about 28) details her life thus far through her relationships with men referred to in an alphabet soup of single letters, and also through her “awakeners”: Neith Boyce, Maeve Brennan, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Edith Wharton. The factoids about the women who influenced Bolick’s decision to remain unattached are interesting, but not penetrating. Bolick’s own story of relationship interactions reads like a polished and fussy journal entry of hindsight revelations. I was desperately seeking interesting reasons why women would choose to buck tradition and go their own way, but Bolick’s window is small and extends no further than Victorian era ladies and her own privileged upbringing and opportunities.

Bolick failed to get an emotional or intellectual response from me with Spinster. The only moment I found myself wanting to hear her story was when she related her last days with her mother with the reader. Perhaps, like Bolick opines of other literary works, Spinster is akin to some books find you when you need them, and I’m not the demographic she was searching for. At least I can offer kudos to her for her choice in “spinsterhood” and for sharing her story.

I received a copy of “Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own” through the site Blogging for Books.