Friday, October 15, 2010

Neon Angel.

I don't think I can read it anymore, much as I wanted to live vicariously through a David-Bowie loving chick in a rock band in the '70s. Knowing how fallible memory is, there's NO WAY Cherie Currie remembers her life in the vivid detail of her autobiography. Even though the writing is compelling and descriptive, I am constantly thinking, "It so did not happen like this." I know it didn't. She writes as if her life is a movie. As if everything happened with the wind blowing in her hair. It paints a picture. It sells books. It's fun to read, but it's not nonfiction. It's loosely based on reality, which would be fine if I could just accept that, but I can't. If I could just say to myself, "This book is a loose representation of reality. These are exaggerated details of a girl's life." then I could just shut up and enjoy it but because she's willing to lie about the details as if she remembers them as well as playing back a VHS of her life, I have to question everything. If only there was a disclaimer at the beginning from the author stating that this is an account of inserted memories. Even with just THAT I could shut up and enjoy it, but alas, I cannot and this will make the fourth book in a row I have stopped reading before finishing.

Why is nothing satisfying me lately, literature-wise?

Help a book-deprived girl with suggestions. I want to read about music! I want Rob Sheffield types!

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