L.A. Times reviews Patricia Hampl's The Florist Daughter. I'm slightly amused by this:
It always seems ridiculous when a writer offers up a memoir at, say, age 25 or 30. But it's equally ridiculous to think that we shed just as much wisdom on our past at 30 as we might at 50 or 80. Things sink in differently at different times, a fact that makes memoir writing more like blogging than storytelling. Stories require narratives. Memories elude narratives. Too much narrative and you're in fiction territory. Without a map.
If Hampl is the memoir queen, Annie Ernaux and the late Anaïs Nin are the founding mothers of the blog. Since both have written mostly about their lovers, updates are constantly necessary.
I like it that bloggers can claim Anaïs Nin as our founding mother. I'm also slightly embarrassed that I actually enjoyed read Nin's Delta of Venus and Little Birds. Henry and June was overblown -- reminds me a little of D.H. Lawrence -- but hynoptic in some places