On devastating reads and the latest I’ve found…
Yesterday’s announcement that the anonymous Rumpus advice columnist Sugar (to read Sugar is to love Sugar) was a writer named Cheryl Strayed, brought me to read for the first time some of her writing published under her true byline.
“The Love Of My Life” published in The Sun Magazine (2002), a beautiful personal perfect essay that starts with the line:
THE FIRST TIME I cheated on my husband, my mother had been dead for exactly one week.
and a 4,500 word excerpt from her forthcoming (six figure deal) memoir Wild published in Vogue, Into the Woods, which would make anyone preorder that sure-to-be-amazing story.
And it all got me thinking about what I love to read. I’ve always found nothing more compelling than: brutally open and honest and true nonfiction first person literary personal memoir/essays. Bonus points if you’re male, coming of age, and writing about New York.
Likewise, they’ve mostly been male writers: Jonathan Ames, David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, Hunter S. Thompson, David Foster Wallace, John Jeremiah Sullivan, etc. but stand-out women like Zadie Smith, Sloane Crosby, and now Cheryl Strayed have started to balance out my list, because nothing has been more devastatingly personal, honest, open, self-aware, seedy, well-written, selfish, and true than “The Love Of My Life” that I’ve read recently. It’s got everything to rope you in (death, drugs, sex, drama) but it’s the self-awareness that keeps you there. Read it.

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