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mattstebbins 's review for:
It's hard to review memoirs. After all, it can feel like you're judging someone else's life; how do you judge their telling of their story without feeling like you're judging their life?
For me, I keep coming back to audience and what a story may or may not add to the world. In that context, this book arguably shouldn't have been published; it doesn't add anything new to an understanding of dogsledding (the realm in which Braverman is arguably a celebrity, so in that context it could have been a celebrity memoir) nor are her stories (at least the ones presented here) particularly about her unique experience of the world. Instead, they mostly present her as a passive observer in an array of men's lives which...hard pass. Rather than presenting a strong, brave, and empowered woman, the stories shared here mostly reinforce misogynistic spaces and Braverman's passivity in those spaces...which is incredibly disappointing.
There's also the matter of editing. Namely, it feels like this either wasn't edited or was poorly edited. Developmentally, large chunks of this feel like Braverman avoiding therapy—which is fine for personal writing, but just doesn't work the same way when it's written for an audience. And fine, that's her right, to take journal entries and turn it into a book (which is what chunks of this felt like), but that doesn't make for very good reading.
There's also the point that Braverman has the capacity to really makes language sing for her, and while there are snippets of that in here (when talking about the beauty of the natural world or in her afterword, which is gorgeous and by far the best part of the entire book), that writing is all too rare in this book. (I'm disappointed in Braverman's editors for not pushing for more of that language in this book, tbh, for not pushing for more of the stories where her language comes alive.)
I told Kerr the other day that I've long had this feeling with writers from the Iowa Writers Workshop that their language can end up feeling stilted and dead. That isn't particularly charitable, I realize, but there are definite sections of this that embody that oversimplification. And given the contrast, given how some sections of this (like the afterword) really do come alive, the deadness is even more disappointing.
I don't give stars for memoirs...but I can certainly understand some of the one- and two-star reviews on this one. (Which is a real bummer, because I know Braverman is capable of better, having seen it in bits and pieces here, as well as having seen it in some of her other pieces.)
For me, I keep coming back to audience and what a story may or may not add to the world. In that context, this book arguably shouldn't have been published; it doesn't add anything new to an understanding of dogsledding (the realm in which Braverman is arguably a celebrity, so in that context it could have been a celebrity memoir) nor are her stories (at least the ones presented here) particularly about her unique experience of the world. Instead, they mostly present her as a passive observer in an array of men's lives which...hard pass. Rather than presenting a strong, brave, and empowered woman, the stories shared here mostly reinforce misogynistic spaces and Braverman's passivity in those spaces...which is incredibly disappointing.
There's also the matter of editing. Namely, it feels like this either wasn't edited or was poorly edited. Developmentally, large chunks of this feel like Braverman avoiding therapy—which is fine for personal writing, but just doesn't work the same way when it's written for an audience. And fine, that's her right, to take journal entries and turn it into a book (which is what chunks of this felt like), but that doesn't make for very good reading.
There's also the point that Braverman has the capacity to really makes language sing for her, and while there are snippets of that in here (when talking about the beauty of the natural world or in her afterword, which is gorgeous and by far the best part of the entire book), that writing is all too rare in this book. (I'm disappointed in Braverman's editors for not pushing for more of that language in this book, tbh, for not pushing for more of the stories where her language comes alive.)
I told Kerr the other day that I've long had this feeling with writers from the Iowa Writers Workshop that their language can end up feeling stilted and dead. That isn't particularly charitable, I realize, but there are definite sections of this that embody that oversimplification. And given the contrast, given how some sections of this (like the afterword) really do come alive, the deadness is even more disappointing.
I don't give stars for memoirs...but I can certainly understand some of the one- and two-star reviews on this one. (Which is a real bummer, because I know Braverman is capable of better, having seen it in bits and pieces here, as well as having seen it in some of her other pieces.)