Louisa
The strength of this book is the sum of brave moments where the author/narrator spits out her honest feelings and opinions on (not) having children. Its principal weakness is its overindulgence (both in quality and quantity of writing) in overthinking spirals and meandering thoughts that follow the same pattern, express the same ideas, and reach the same conclusions, yet repeatedly come up throughout the book.
This is why the book drags and feels bloated. The bluntness on motherhood becomes the side story to this main structure (that itself has no structure) and together they do not form a whole that could be described as a novel, even a loose/stream-of-consciousness one, thought it seems to have been the aim.
Other notes:
- It's classified as a novel. It reads/feels like a memoir.
- You know the author has run out of ideas when they resort to *repeatedly* recounting their dreams. This happens too often in this book. I found myself saying out loud, PLEASE STOP I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR DREAMS THAT MUCH I AM NOT YOUR PSYCHOANALYST
- The HYSTERICAL moment at the end of the book when the author/narrator suddenly ends her overthinking spirals that have plagued most of the book, literally ceases to be tormented by the topic of motherhood, because she started anxiety/depression medication. She then concludes that the medication has solved all her problems, answered her questions, and made life markedly better. Though I applaud her for taking care of her mental health and feeling better as a result, it's HILARIOUS because it renders most of the writing in the preceding 230 pages pointless. In this vain the book's central question should have been antidepressants, their reported efficacy, and what it's like taking or not taking them.
The strength of this book is the sum of brave moments where the author/narrator spits out her honest feelings and opinions on (not) having children. Its principal weakness is its overindulgence (both in quality and quantity of writing) in overthinking spirals and meandering thoughts that follow the same pattern, express the same ideas, and reach the same conclusions, yet repeatedly come up throughout the book.
This is why the book drags and feels bloated. The bluntness on motherhood becomes the side story to this main structure (that itself has no structure) and together they do not form a whole that could be described as a novel, even a loose/stream-of-consciousness one, thought it seems to have been the aim.
Other notes:
- It's classified as a novel. It reads/feels like a memoir.
- You know the author has run out of ideas when they resort to *repeatedly* recounting their dreams. This happens too often in this book. I found myself saying out loud, PLEASE STOP I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR DREAMS THAT MUCH I AM NOT YOUR PSYCHOANALYST
- The HYSTERICAL moment at the end of the book when the author/narrator suddenly ends her overthinking spirals that have plagued most of the book, literally ceases to be tormented by the topic of motherhood, because she started anxiety/depression medication. She then concludes that the medication has solved all her problems, answered her questions, and made life markedly better. Though I applaud her for taking care of her mental health and feeling better as a result, it's HILARIOUS because it renders most of the writing in the preceding 230 pages pointless. In this vain the book's central question should have been antidepressants, their reported efficacy, and what it's like taking or not taking them.