Is baring your life - and the dynamics of a very significant relationship - in a book a brave move or the result of a scarcity of ideas? A sign of self-love or self-loathe? Someting therapeutic or something self-celebrating? Possibly all of the above.
This is a book that I've read because its authors come from my hometown and I bumped into them a couple of times when I was a teenager and they were in their 30s. Without this very loose personal connection, I most likely wouldn't have picked it up.
Obviously co-authoring a book is a titanic effort for any writer, but here the limitations are at times clear, with the two authors taking on alternate chapters with different and uneven tones, styles, and not even agreeing on whether to narrate the story in the first or second person, making it hard for the reader to really feel involved in this project.
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