Read about 30 pages of this “memoir.” Had to stop because it was hilariously awful in so many ways: the writing was piss poor, unorganized, and ranting like a teenager’s journal; the narrator had no self-awareness and didn’t show (but told) how terrible his mother was, leading me to believe he was the terrible one; there were typos and errors throughout (it was self-published).
I thought it might be a good book to compare to my memoir, but this book has so little literary merit that it should best be forgotten. Safe to say I think my memoir will be leagues better. Now I feel better about my writing.
I also didn’t take a picture of this because I hastily returned it, nor do I want to be seen with this waste of trees.
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