I’ve stopped reading Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs; it’s a memoir about a young boy growing up in an odd environment, with lots of unusual, often sad events that illustrate what’s influenced the boy’s perception of himself and the world. I grew tired of it, not caring about him or his mother. The writing seemed forced, as if the memoir was painful to tell; maybe that was the author’s intent, but it didn’t work for me.
I’m going to tackle The New Oxford Guide to Writing by Thomas S. Kane and A Shortcut in Time by Charles Dickinson next.
