Debra Ginsberg has written two other books…both memoirs. And here we have…another memoir. This woman must be difficult in a room. I imagine her taking charge of the conversation and doing nothing but talk about herself. But maybe I’m too harsh. Other than the fact that she’s a vegetarian who loves astrology, reality is that I know nothing about her. All I can say so far is that Lavender and Deja are just about the dumbest names I’ve ever heard of. I just want to slap her whole family.
Oh! And while I’m venting here, what’s up with books always starting at page 4 or 7 or 12? Why not start at page 1 for crying out loud?
I insist on sticking this one out. I’ve had too many worthless books I couldn’t finish, so I’m gonna do my best, even if it hurts. So far, her writing style is nice and smooth, so that’ll help.
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