Enough already

I just finished reading Augsten Burroughs’ latest memoir Wolf at the Table. It is a memoir of Augusten’s father. Briefly (in 10 words), this book is about how much Burroughs hates his father. How his father was the most evil man on the planet and how his father was cruel and distant and cold and deserved all the bad things that ever happened to him. Yawn. It is quite obviously made up, but that’s ok. I think I’ve mentioned that made-up memoirs don’t bother me.

What bothered me immensely though was the self-indulgent writing. In dozens of vignette’s that span the 200 page book, Burrough’s would paint the exact same picture – a distant, unloving and cruel father. A child whose only wish was to be loved by his dad, instead was rebuked every single time (there is actually a story about how the young Augusten counted the number of times his father refused to hug him – that one was a real page-turner).

Now, I realize that growing up in such an environment is traumatic and would make you think that you should write a book about it. But here’s the deal -- it’s not interesting for everyone else. And to make matters worse, Burroughs’ didn’t even bother to make things less boring. It was just page after page of “I am so sad. My Daddy doesn’t love me.” After page 4 it gets old.

If you had any plans of reading this book, let me save you the trouble. Wolf is so bad, it is almost unreadable. Maybe Burroughs should go back to writing fiction (but then again, one can argue he never stopped).