Small Fry: A Memoir

Girl grows up with(out) shitty absent father. Grown woman writes about it. Would this book have been published if the shitty father in question was not a celebrity? I like to think so, but I like to think it would've then been better. One curse of fame is that editors are reluctant to trim. So many details felt contrived: “The air smelled of eucalyptus and sunshine-warmed dirt, moisture, cut grass” (writing about when she was seven); the exact clothes people were wearing at one not-particularly-memorable moment twenty years ago. The reader grants some license in a memoir — dialog would be impossible — but this felt like too much.

Come to think of it, that's the thing: this didn't feel like a memoir. Not bildungsroman either, although lukewarm points to Brennan-Jobs for trying at the end. There just wasn't enough author in it: in this solar system all attention goes to the planets orbiting the timid sun. (And I am trying to be gentle, to understand the author's dilemma). Brennan-Jobs shows promise as a writer: I'm glad she got this book out of her system, and hope she enjoyed the writing journey, because I do look forward to reading more from her. In another genre.

And, lest you be tempted to judge Steve Jobs: go for it. With my blessing. There's not much controversy about him being a jerk. But then, while you're still feeling that self-satisfied glow, you could try asking yourself: is there anyone in my life who might see me as a jerk? Because sometimes there is, for most of us, and it's a jerk move to resolve things on one's deathbed — or not at all.