I like reading books about war dogs, shipwrecks, and lady aviators.
Don't you love the way a holiday weekend beckons you to read and read and read?
I plowed through this one and am already recommending it to others. That's kind of funny, because I honestly don't know how I feel about it.
On one hand, it's a brutally vulnerable and honest look at imperfections and complications and all the experiences that make up who we are.
On the other, it has a narrative arc that doesn't quite come together; disjointed stories sprinkled into the same essay that you have to reach to find a reasonable connection. The tense shifts from past to present sentence by sentence.
I found myself simultaneously elated that it had been written and shared, and confused as to what its purpose is or who the intended audience is. Maybe that's why I'm recommending it now; I'm waiting to hear other thoughts to help make sense of my own discombobulation.