I have noticed lately a trend in non-fiction: The “My year of ____” memoir, and its sister, “My year without ________.” In the majority of cases, the books seem gimmicky and forced, as if the author had always wanted to write a book but couldn’t think of anything to write about. There are two exceptions to this rule that I’ve found–Gary Nabhan’s Coming Home to Eat (read: My year of eating locally) and Colin Beavan’s **No Impact Man **(read: My year of minimizing my environmental impact). Both seemed to come from the heart and were worth reading. I don’t know whether it was Nabhan’s book that spawned so many me-too books or something else, but in the last couple of years it seems like this genre is getting a little ridiculous.
Some examples:
**My Year of Living Biblically **(Jacobs is a good writer, so I’m not saying this book isn’t worth reading, but isn’t this a little formulaic at this point?)
Not Buying It
A Year Without “Made in China” (I haven’t read this one)
**A Dirty Life **(one year in the life of a former city girl on an organic farm)
Animal, Vegetable, Mineral
**A Dirty Life ** in particular should get some kind of dishonorable mention for its pretentious and self-conscious writing. The author tries to channel Thoreau and fails miserably. “We feasted on boiled potatoes and cooked greens.” Get over yourself. (I was so annoyed by this book I felt the need to share my feelings about it on Amazon. Who knew reviewing books could be so cathartic.)
Anyway, the two most overdone subgenres seem to be the locavore ones and the opt-out-of-consumerism ones. At this point, any such book coming out is going to be derivative and tedious.
ENOUGH ALREADY.
Anyone else think it’s time for this trend to end, or is it just me?