Sherwood Anderson Book

A memoir about a writer who, after a fight with cancer, takes a part-time job at a local, independently-run bookstore. This seemed right up my alley: books, bookstores, and writing are three of my favorite things (throw in some slashy TV and a couple of cupcakes and I'll never leave). But Shea's narrative is both too personal and too distant. She'll say things like, "And then Old Hank, who everyone in town knows, came in." That example is totally made-up and probably exaggerated, but the point remains: I don't know Old Hank; Shea never makes me feel, as a reader, like I know Old Hank—or anyone. I felt like I was having a conversation with a group of people I just met but who all know each other: their stories would resonate greatly with them, but leave me feeling left out in the cold. Shea never brings the reader in; she made me nostalgic for the bookstore in the small town where I grew up, but didn't make me feel like I knew her bookstore at all. I don't know if I was just cranky when I read this or not, but it left me feeling dissatisfied; it left me cold.