I'm currently plodding through the memoir of a local author, "Without a Map" by Meredith Hall.
Her story is beautifully written and comes very much to life, pulling the reader through her complicated and unconnected life. The story begins in the mid-60's as a mostly ideal childhood which comes to an abrust halt when she became pregnant at the age of 16. Forced by her parents, who at this point have divorced, to give her baby up for adoption, then shunned by both parents.
And therein lies the problem, her story is so sad. Page after page after page of almost, but in the end, uncomprehending sadness. Becoming a complete shell of herself, in spite of relationships, which leads her to leave a boyfriend in Europe and to literally walk across Europe until she arrives in the Middle East where she spends an unknown amount of time. I read an interview with the author which ultimately divulged that the son she gave up was raised in an abusive home.
At some point she ultimately married, but she skips over this part and jumps ahead to telling her two young sons that she and their dad are divorcing, then goes out to kill the family chickens, who each have been given a name, in a very descriptively written chapter. The hens no longer lay eggs and new chicks are arriving the next day. All this taking place on her 38th birthday. Did they ever eat the chickens, or did they just remain lifeless on the grass? Why are they divorcing?
Her story is that sad and I've yet to come across one uplifting moment. So, with this, I ask myself. Why continue? Seriously. I rarely, if ever don't finish a story, but when there's simply no joy, why bring myself down. So with that, I'm going to remove this from my kindle and try to focus instead on the quality and fluidity of her writing.
Yes, I'm calling it quits.
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