Category Archives: mental health

True Crime, by Patricia Cornwell*****

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Legendary mystery writer Patricia Cornwell didn’t intend to write a memoir, but when someone decided to put her life’s story on television, she realized that if she didn’t write it, they’d make it up as they went. What began as a treatment for television writers to use as a guide morphed into a full-length book, and this is a perfect example of what an overachiever Cornwell has become.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Grand Central Publishing for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Cornwell grew up in Miami, but moved with her mother to Montreat, North Carolina following her parents’ separation when she was five years old. It’s a miracle that anyone whose childhood was so riddled with trauma could grow up and pass for normal, let alone accomplish the things that she has done. First, her father had a breakdown, kidnapped her and her brothers, and then tried to hand them off—permanently—to his law partner. Her mother was a hot mess most of the time, and so there were periods when there was no food prepared, and she and her brothers made do by scrounging raw hamburger out of the freezer and eating it raw! Then there was the time her mom went into a fugue state and began systematically burning all of the children’s clothing—and there was no money to replace it with. Neglected children are often a lightning rod that attracts bad actors, and so the local security cop began molesting her—up until he was caught by her older brother, who put a stop to it. And the list goes on.

Nobody walks away from such experiences unscarred, but since Cornell—who was then Patsy Daniels—was a good kid, she internalized all of it, aided by a dreadful first grade teacher that told her that her constant talking in class was probably why her father had left! (As a teacher, this reviewer wants to find that person and have her license pulled, although she is probably gone from this earth by now.) Patsy gained control of her life—sort of—by developing eating disorders. She was hospitalized, but medical science actually didn’t know what to do about anorexia or bulimia, and after months in the institution with no improvement whatever, she gave up and went home. The problem vanished many years later when other aspects of her life changed.

Her love of writing and her feverish work ethic are what has made her such a success (along with great intelligence, though she doesn’t say as much.) She rode with cops and served as a volunteer in order to gain insights into that world; she went to Quantico and studied profiling; and of course, worked in the medical examiner’s office so that she could legitimately view autopsies, which are of course not open to the public. Anything she needed to learn, she found a way to do, leaving no stone unturned. She was aided and mentored by what seems to me an unlikely cast of friends and surrogate parents, including Senator Orin Hatch, Ruth and Billy Graham (mostly Ruth,) and President H.W. Bush.

The thing I appreciate about this memoir, apart from its outstanding prose and organization, is Cornwell’s willingness to disclose personal information. Sometimes, when someone is deeply private but finds herself writing a memoir anyway, she will stay on the surface and give up as little of herself as possible. Such memoirs are frustrating to read and for those that pay money for the privilege, a bit of a cheat. But once Cornwell decided to do this thing, she really did it right. And while, on the one hand, there’s a certain amount of namedropping and braggadocio, even that aspect of it is interesting; given everything she went through to arrive at the station she’s gained in life, one can hardly begrudge her.

For those that love her books, and also for those that simply enjoy a well written memoir, this book is highly recommended.

Black Bag, by Luke Kennard***-****

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In this bizarre little story, an out-of-work actor accepts a position with a psychology professor. The gig is to wear a big black leather bag from his calves clear over the top of his head, and not talk to anyone. The experience leads to unexpected developments.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Zando for the invitation to read and review. This book is for sale now.

Possibly the oddest thing of all is that we are never given a name for our protagonist, so I will call him Our Actor. Our Actor answers the advertisement and is intrigued by the proposition; he’s even more intrigued by the promise of fast cash. He’s been avoiding his landlady, and his food supply is about to run out. And the job is an easy one: all he has to do is wear the bag and be quiet. He is to show up at a particular class the professor is teaching, and not communicate in any way with the students or anybody else. No words, no shrugs, no noises of any kind. The professor then observes how the students respond to the bag person (my term, not Kinnard’s.)

A secondary thread appears when another professor taps him for her research on sexuality. His job for her is to show up in her office when he is on campus, but not needed by the first prof, and during hours she’ll be there. He goes to her office, where they have sort-of sex without him removing the bag. She doesn’t want to see him outside of his bag, ever. The whole business turns pitiful when he decides he’s in love with her; she, in turn, tends to forget he’s an actual human being in there. I don’t much like this aspect of the story, but it serves the purpose of demonstrating just exactly how alienated from real life this poor schmuck is. In fact, the whole story is one of great loneliness and alienation.

The middle of the book is slow. There’s a fair amount of repetition; the most interesting occurrence is when Our Actor’s best (and possibly only) friend, who is an influencer, decides there’s a way to monetize the whole Black Bag experience. I think that I have identified the problem that will result from this decision, but I am mistaken. I can’t guess where Kennard is going.

The second half of the book is much better than the first, which is why I round my rating upwards. By the 25% mark, I am counting both the remaining pages and my regrets, but shortly after the halfway mark, the thing picks up steam and then I have to know how it shakes out, not just for the sake of an honest and informed review, but for myself.

Also interesting is the author’s note, which explains that the novel is based on a true story! *What?*

For those in the mood for something different, this brief little book may be just what you’re looking for.

100 Rules for Living to 100, by Dick Van Dyke****

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Dick Van Dyke was a wonderful part of my childhood, and this lovely audiobook has put a little more bounce in my step. It’s not really about rules, of course, but the format is a perfect scaffold for a combination memoir and self-help book. My thanks go to NetGalley and Grand Central Publishing for the review copy; this book is for sale now.

Van Dyke entered my consciousness when I was a kindergartener, and the original movie Mary Poppins brought droves of families to theaters. I was not the only family member that was entranced, and all of us sang along to the sound track once the record was on our stereo turntable. The movie, and its lead characters, played by Julie Andrews and Van Dyke, glowed with humor and optimism.  What a wonderful message to share, the idea that the best we can give our children is our time and our attention. In the early 1960s, the suggestion that adults ought to listen to children was ahead of its time and much needed.

Many of the anecdotes the author conveys have to do with experiences shared between him and Arlene, his current wife. Despite the May-December romance, it sounds like a wonderful union. He talks about the recent and horrific events with the Santa Ana fires that took the homes of so many—though his own was spared. My favorite parts, though, are the ones in which he discusses the future roles he’d like to play, because he isn’t really retired from the industry. Way to go, Dick!

Reader Tom Bergeron does a nice job, and as a bonus, he sounds quite a bit like the author.

I recommend this little gem to everyone that could use some positive energy, and to all that love the author.

Words for My Friends: A Political History of Tupac Shakur***-****

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3.75 stars, rounded up.

Tupac Shakur lived for just 25 years, but he left an outsized legacy. Author Dean Van Nguyen has published a “political history,” a biography of sorts focusing on Tupac’s political ideology and the foundation on which it was formed. My thanks go to NetGalley and Doubleday for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Van Nguyen begins his narrative with an overview of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and ‘60s.  This is an area I’ve studied fairly closely, and so there was no new information in it for me, but I could see its value in a community college Black Studies or general history course. Once we’re past that, we enter into Tupac’s family background, and from there forward, his personal and political upbringings are intertwined. His parents were members of the Black Panthers, a militant, armed group of rebels seeking to force equity for Black people in the U.S. from a government that was long on promises and short on substance. There is a tremendous amount of the book given to the history of the Panthers, and most of what is recounted occurs either before Tupac was born, or while he was an infant.

Here’s my takeaway: I have often been curious about the Panthers, whose struggle I knew in broad strokes, but few specifics, and so this is interesting to me. But the book’s title has led me to believe that this book is primarily about Tupac, and we are at around the 40% before he even comes into the narrative. This is my sole complaint about this work, but it’s a significant one. Had the title been clearer that this is really a history of Tupac and the Black Panthers, I probably would have still read it, but because of the way it’s promoted, I feel frustrated when the 20% mark goes on by, then the 30% mark, and apart from a brief reference or two, Tupac isn’t even in it. In fact, we learn more about his mother than we do about him.

Once we do get to the meat of the matter, this is riveting material. What a gifted man he was, and yet he was still coming of age when he died. He loved reading classical literature, and he attended a fine arts high school where he was better able to develop his interests and talents, playing in Shakespearean productions; but as is often the case for children in low-income households, about the time he put down roots and made connections, his mother had to give up their lodgings, and that meant moving to a new town and a new school.

 This happens again and again. Single motherhood is hard anyway, but once you bring crack into it, the game’s all but over. And (here I suppress a primal scream,) because his father isn’t there and his mother is struggling, Tupac believes he must take care of his mother and long, long before he is old enough to bear such a burden. Teachers everywhere have seen that kid. He might be Black, Caucasian, or any other ethnic and racial background; he might be a she, for that matter. But children that take the responsibility that belongs to the head of the household are under a whole lot of stress, and the fracture lines often don’t show in their teens. They look as if they’re handling the job like an adult, often being praised by those in authority for their organization and focus. But—ask a social worker here—when they hit their twenties, that’s when they start falling apart. Because kids cannot be adults. When they are forced into the role, it will break them, sooner or later. And it seems clear to me that this is part of what led to Tupac’s early demise.

There’s a lot of interesting material packed into the relatively small part of the book that he occupies. We learn about the other famous performers he meets and befriends, first in school, then professionally, and about the political ideas he explores, serving for a while as a member and organizer of the local chapter of the Communist Party’s youth group. His willingness to dive deep into ethical and political ideas is reflected in his music, and to my knowledge, there is no other rapper that has included respect for women, along with an overtly pro-choice message, in their recordings. But just as his star begins to rise in earnest, he is killed.

Those considering reading this book should either be ready to read extensively about peripheral issues and events that don’t directly include Tupac, or should be ready to get the book with the intention of skipping a lot of material. As for me, I’m glad I read it.

My Friends, by Fredrik Backman***-****

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“Being human is to grieve, constantly.”

Well now. Fredrik Backman’s many fans ought to brace themselves for his latest novel. The feel-good stories he’s written, and written brilliantly, in years gone by are nowhere in evidence here; those of us that look to this author to bolster our sense of optimism and to remember that human beings are innately good are not going to find it. This book is far darker than anything he’s written to date, and I have no idea what is behind this sorrow and misery sandwich, but I am sorry it’s come to this.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Atria Books for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Our premise is that a homeless teen artist, grieving the death of her best friend, befriends an older, dying street artist who turns out to be someone famous and revered in the art world. The artist senses in her a kindred spirit, and so his last act is to have his friend and business agent sell everything that the artist owns in order to purchase back one of his most iconic paintings and give it to her after he dies, because “She’s one of us.”

Okay. It’s a stretch, but it’s fiction, and after all, Backman generally delivers, so I’ll suspend disbelief and roll with it.

Nearly the entire remainder of the book consists of the friend, whose name is Ted, spilling his and the artist’s past to the girl, whose name is Louisa. He’s traveling by train, and so he takes her with him. We hear all about their childhoods together, along with the two other friends that made up their tightly knit friend group. At one point she runs off, and at another, they lose the painting and the artist’s ashes, but these constitute minor breaks in the otherwise unending conversation, which is nearly a monologue.

It didn’t take me long to be heartily sorry I had ever taken the galley; I finally bonded with the narrative at about the 60% mark, and from that point until just past the 80% mark, I was reading because I wanted to know what would happen next, or be said next, rather than from a sense of duty. For most of the final 20%, I was watching the page numbers and wondering if this thing was going to end, ever.

It’s hard to rate a book like this, because so much of my disappointment stems from my earlier admiration of Backman’s works. If this was written by someone with whom I was unfamiliar, would I rate it a little higher? But then, if the author wasn’t known to me, I likely wouldn’t have picked it up in the first place. The stark shift in the author’s world view is shocking, and I am still not entirely over it. I can only recommend this book to you if you need a grief book, because anyone in need of a good ugly-cry will surely find it here.

Shattered, by Hanif Kureishi***

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A while back, I read a novel by Hanif Kureishi titled The Last Word.  It was not his most successful book in terms of sales, but I was gob-smacked by his cleverness, and so when I saw that he had a memoir coming out, I felt compelled to read it, even though it was likely going to be sad, since it is, at least in part, a memoir of what it’s like to be almost completely paralyzed.

My thanks go to Harper Collins and NetGalley for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Kureishi is a seasoned writer and journalist, and as he writes about this horrifying event alternately with the earlier parts of his life, we see happier times as well. I thought it would be a narrative that I would need to take in small bursts because of its tragic nature, but that I would nevertheless appreciate it for its brilliance. What a surprise; I can read about his accident, hospitalization, and the experiences he has as a disabled person without a lot of difficulty, but I am drawn up short by the numerous passages about his sexuality.

You see, I am of the old school that believes that just because a thing is true, that doesn’t necessarily mean that its many details belong in a memoir. For example, sometime during nearly everyone’s life, we have digestive difficulties brought on by a case of the flu or some other thing. Has it happened? Yes. Do we need a detailed description of the writer’s vomit and bowel movements? Perhaps not. And this is the way I feel about his fondness for porn, for explorations of his own sexuality with various partners and all by himself (ew!) and even his fondness for street drugs and booze. Why would I want to read about any of this?

Sadly, Kureishi says that he no longer enjoys reading or writing fiction, and since that is the part of his work that I admire, I think we’re done here.

To be clear, he is a capable wordsmith, and those that are curious about what a disability might be like can get a taste of that here, which is why there are three stars and not fewer. I cringe when I read about his plane flight, with people shoving past him, even as they glance pityingly down at him. But like many Boomers, I have tasted a less extreme aspect of this myself, and so Kureishi’s version of it feels to this reviewer like a busman’s holiday.

This book is recommended to those of his readers that have appreciated his earlier nonfiction work, and to those with an interest in the lives of paraplegics and quadriplegics. For others, there are numerous online reviews that include large excerpts, and I recommend reading those before you invest in this book.

Between Two Trailers, by J. Dana Trent*****

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And you thought your childhood was difficult.

Dana Trent is the child of two drug addicted schizophrenics who met and fell in love on the psych ward. The fact that she lived to adulthood is astonishing. Her story is captivating; my thanks go to NetGalley and Random House for the invitation to read and review. This memoir will be available to the public April 16, 2024.

“’Kids make the best hustlers,’ King told me the week after I was expelled from preschool. He lifted me onto the counter and coated his arms with palmfuls of petroleum jelly from the biggest Vaseline tubs Walmart sold. Then he greased up mine. ‘No one expects a runt in a Looney Tunes T-shirt to shank you,’ he explained. ‘Budgie!’ he said and pointed to my chest, then sealed my street name with a Vaseline cross to my forehead. ‘Budgie,’ I parroted, finger to my own chest…‘Guns are for idiots,’ he added. ‘Here.’ He handed me my first pocketknife, a foldout two-inch blade with a horse and buggy painted on the handle. Knives teach you to accept the inevitable. ‘You’ll get stabbed,’ he said, ‘but you’ll survive. No big deal.’”

The nickname “Budgie” was chosen because she was his lookout on drug deals. She would ride along with him, his trunk stuffed full of drugs, and when he got out, she was stationed on the highest available vantage point. If she saw someone—an ambush, the cops, anyone—she was supposed to sing like a bird. (Even other drug dealers and manufacturers questioned the wisdom of hauling a three year old on such expeditions, but King, as her father was known, was not easily influenced.)

At such moments, one might wonder where her mother was. Usually her mother was either unconscious in bed, or on the way into or out of that state. Because her father was awake and slightly more predictable, Dana considered him the more reliable parent. Before she was old enough for kindergarten, she understood that it was up to her to take care of The Lady.

My initial response to this scenario was to be bitterly angry at whoever decided to expel this child from preschool. Boom, there went that tiny girl’s one tie to the safer, saner world. How could anyone look at her behavior, her clothing, her hair and not call Children’s Services? I’m still fuming.

Miraculously enough, Trent made it to adulthood, and after years and years of therapy, she is able to lead a normal life. She’s achieved a remarkable amount, with a Ph.D. to her credit along with a solid career in academia.

And she can write! There is never a slow moment in this memoir, a hair raising read that I brought out at lunchtime, but never at bedtime. There is very little by way of dialogue, and that makes the swift, steady pacing even more remarkable.

Between Two Trailers is one of the year’s best reads. Highly recommended.

What the Taliban Told Me, by Ian Fritz****

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Ian Fritz was an Airborne Cryptologic Linguist who served with the U.S. Air Force in Afghanistan for five years. Trained in both Dari and Pashto, he became one of only two people that could understand what was being said by all of the people on the ground before and during battle. Following his service, he became a physician and writer. This is his memoir.

My thanks go to Simon and Schuster Publishing and NetGalley for the invitation to read and review. This book is for sale now.

Fritz was in many ways the perfect recruit; his family didn’t have any money, and he was brilliant, which meant that if he was going to have any opportunities, they would most likely come from the U.S. armed forces. He blew through his public school years, as gifted students that aren’t challenged often do.

This is where I long to stand on a big box and yell through a bullhorn: gifted students are at risk children! We must provide them with challenging, interesting curriculum, or they will stop bothering with school. I’ve been saying so for decades, and I’m saying it again right now. So many times educators and school districts assume these kids will automatically be fine. If the student is bored, they use them as unpaid tutors for their peers, which distorts relationships among the students and does nothing to provide the highly capable student with new, interesting material. These kids need different educations from those in the mainstream. Ian’s story is a powerful example of why this is so.

Ian was sent to an elite language training program, and then he was deployed. Initially, the successful flights in which targets were found, identified, and killed—often partly or solely because of his contribution—were exhilarating, but as time went on, he began to feel conflicted. On the one hand, the Taliban were responsible for the horrific, cowardly attacks on American civilians on 9/11, and were therefore a legitimate target. On the other hand, being able to understand what enemy soldiers were saying to one another made him aware that these were normal people, attempting to live their lives and repel the U.S. invaders. It’s hard to hate someone, or to be indifferent to them, when you overhear them discussing their plans for after the day’s fighting is done, or declaring that it’s just plain “too hot for Jihad today.” Sometimes a threat on the ground would be identified, and the Americans wouldn’t realize that this was an error until after the person they’d targeted was dead. And he knew the names of the dead, sometimes hear the survivors below desperately trying to get their comrade to a medic, but then…oh. Too late.

Then there was this culture among others he served with, those not trained in the language and who were therefore able to demonize the targets, howling with laughter at the way a body on the ground could be made to bounce if you shot it at just the right angle. He realized that “no one else had heard, and no one else ever would hear, the simultaneous screams of the JTAC [U.S. officer on the ground] and the Talibs. Or the sudden quiet when the Talibs died.”

Ultimately, he learned that Afghanistan was actually a lot safer without U.S. forces than with them.

As Fritz began to internalize his despair, he grew suicidal, and he knew he had to get out. It’s at this point that he was charged with malingering and cowardice; he would later learn that it was a trend among the linguists serving in this theater.

Fritz is one hell of a fine writer, and the narrative flows smoothly. I was surprised to find that this was a quick read, despite the intensity of the material. Surely there must be other military memoirs relating to Afghanistan, but as he points out, nobody else is writing about this experience, because almost nobody else has done what he has.

For those with the interest and the courage, this memoir is recommended.

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar

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“’Do you worry about becoming a cliché? ‘

“’How do you mean?’

“’Another death-obsessed Iranian man?’”

My thanks go to Doubleday and NetGalley for the invitation to read and review this singular debut novel. This book is for sale now.

Our protagonist is Cyrus, an Iranian immigrant who comes to live in the U.S. as an infant. He is raised by his father, Ali; his mother’s plane was shot down shortly after Cyrus was born, an accident on the part of the U.S. military. His father dies suddenly while he is away at college, leaving him rootless. He spends a lot of time anguishing over death, wondering what is worth dying for. He doesn’t want to waste his “one good death.” Later, he points out that “If I died trying to kill a genocidal dictator tomorrow, the news wouldn’t say a leftist American made a measured and principled sacrifice for the good of his species. The news would say an Iranian terrorist attempted a state assassination. “

And you know that he’s right.

The thing that attracted me to this story is its difference from everything else that I have read. Persians almost never show up in American novels, and when they do, the Persian is the other, the bad or weird person, pretty much like the quote above suggests. So I was all in.

However, I have to say that the amount of angsty inner dialogue makes this a slooow read in places. There is also dialogue between Cyrus and friends, but most of it basically the same thing with a different format. I was primed for humor, since that’s how the book is being promoted, but didn’t find much of it.

The story wakes up a bit when Cyrus leaves Indiana for New York, but the writing remains inconsistent, and the transitions are sometimes a bit ragged.

The revelation about his mother, which occurs toward the end of the story, is startling, and I didn’t see it coming, but it also presents a credibility issue; I won’t go into details here, because it would be a spoiler. Still, apart from this one reservation, the ending is nicely rendered.

Akbar is an interesting writer, and I look forward to seeing what he writes next.

The Women, by Kristin Hannah****

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Kristin Hannah can draw character like nobody else. Her latest novel, The Women, tells the story of Frances “Frankie” McGrath, a young woman from an upper middle class family that follows her brother to Vietnam, serving as an army nurse. Frankie is a character that will stay with me long after I read dozens of other novels, and this experience is made even more memorable by the talented Julia Whelan, the voice actor that narrates the audio version. My thanks go to NetGalley, St. Martin’s Press, and Macmillan Audio for the review copies. It will be available to the public February 6, 2024.

Frankie is twenty years old when we meet her, and her family is throwing a party for her big brother and best friend, Finley, who is leaving to serve in the U.S. Navy. Kennedy is in the White House, and most Americans still bear an implicit trust in their government. But Frankie is worried about Fin, and doesn’t like that he is about to put himself in harm’s way. He reassures her, “It isn’t dangerous, Frankie. Trust me. I’m a Naval Academy graduate, an officer with a cushy assignment on a ship. I’ll be back in no time. You’ll hardly have time to miss me.”

Frankie completes her nurse’s training, then signs on to join her brother, but before she is even packed, the telegram arrives. Finley is dead; killed in action.

The plot itself is unremarkable. Yes, war is hell; yes, friends die. And yes, a married man that sees an attractive, vulnerable American woman in a place where they are scarce, will lie like a rug in order to get close to her. But in Hannah’s hands, every joy and every sorrow are real and visceral, because we believe.

Frankie serves as a combat nurse at the front, and works in every possible hard situation. Sometimes the lights go out during surgery because a bomb has fallen; at one point her sleeping quarters is bombed and has to be rebuilt. She works for days on end without sleep when it’s necessary. And the trauma follows her home.

My only quibble with this otherwise outstanding story is the emphasis Hannah places on the abuse of returning troops by the public. She brings in the old saw about them being spat upon and called baby killers, even though an easy search confirms what I remember: this is mostly myth. Just as women weren’t really burning bras, most troops were not greeted with abuse. It’s true that the wildly patriotic parades that greeted the troops that returned from World War Two are not there for these men and women, but then, the Korean War vets didn’t see them, either. Historical fiction should honor history, not rewrite it.

With this caveat, I recommend this book to you. Do read it; it’s a damn fine novel. But do so critically, because you can’t always believe everything you read.