I started hating Elizabeth Gilbert at the first page. Who is this woman who writes so well? Who does she think she is? I will never be as good as that. I was supposed to write this book. I hate her!
Still, I kept reading, hoping that only the fist 10, 20, 40, ok, 50 pages can be that good. She cannot go on for 300, can she? I mean, how clever, how funny, how deep can only one person be in only one book? But she continued more or less in the same vein. At least far beyond my 50 pages mark. She will make me give up on writing all together, I thought. I haven’t even quite started yet, but I need encouragement, not such impossible perfect writers who sing in my ear “You can never be as good! You can never be as good! Lala, lala, laaa la!” I hate her.
I was reading an article with an excellent description of the difference between two types of writers: ”Where one enjoys language pyrotechnics and humorous turns of phrases, the other prefers careful characterization and deep irony.” I guess I am more like the second one, forever looking with envy and admiration at the other side, where the fireworks go off.
I enjoyed reading this book, although it does become a little slow in the middle, where I think she is trying too hard to explain meditation and transcendental experiences that are too elusive for words.