The Best Awful (by Carrie Fisher)

I think I mentioned somewhere that for some reason I am a Carrie Fisher completist, so I picked up this book, a sequel to Postcards on the Edge, which I liked. Well now I know why this book has no blurbs on the cover: it's bad. It's self-indulgent, free associative, tiresome, and obviously very personal. The personal element makes me sympathize with her (the author, not the character), but it doesn't make me like the book any better. She should have just written a juicy, gossipy memoir, instead of this thinly veiled confessional disguised as fiction.

Parts of it read like she actually wrote it while manic and on drugs. Maybe I am not giving her enough credit; maybe she is just remembering what it was like to be manic and on drugs and does a good job of conveying it to the reader through endless puns and twists of phrase. Some of the wordplay is quite clever, but know when to quit, Carrie Fisher!

Also, I don't think this book was proofread at all. There are tons of typos. Which right away is going to make me hate your book, so hire an effing proofreader already. You can even hire me for the next one. In fact, if you don't, I probably won't read it. Because I think I'm done.