one book down....

So I haven't really counted them all, but maybe I should.
I finished the first book from my purging expedition in the basement. I read An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken. It is essentially the story of a woman who has a stillborn baby and then within a year has a second healthy child. It is a memoir, a true story of this woman's experience throughout the two pregnancies.

Being a sucker for emotional songs, movies, and books I thought "This one is going to make me cry!" And truthfully, I love that. I love the physical release of crying; even if it makes your nose stuffy for a little while, it still feels like a cleansing of sorts. So when I cry for someone else's pain and suffering, it gives me that feeling without actually having to be sad about my own life.
So you would think a true story about a stillborn would be sufficient to conjure up the crying magic. But, sadly, it didn't.

I felt very disconnected to the author. I wanted to feel compassion for her, to try to understand what that would be like. Maybe it is because I have had two uneventful (in a good way) pregnancies which resulted in two beautiful healthy baby girls. I have not had a miscarriage or a stillborn child. But actually having experienced the same set of circumstances isn't usually necessary to initiate the waterworks. I can be sympathethic, if not empathetic, very easily. I'm sure my husband would just say pathetic, but all you women out there know what I'm talking about. I can feel sad for 30 second tv commercial actors. I can ball my eyes out to a country song video. I can make myself cry just by thinking bad thoughts about someone close to me or by praying so deeply for loved ones. So what gives with a true story about a very sad thing?

Having only finished the book 10 minutes ago, the best I can come up with is that it was written very well. It wasn't an emotional account of the situation. It was filled with facts and details that paint a picture in my mind about how exactly it happened for her. It was a story of her thoughts, her anxieties, how she interacted with the medical professionals in France and New York. It was a written thank you to her friends that helped her through the aftermath of baby #1. It was sad, but it wasn't emotional. It was detailed and interesting, but it wasn't personal. She seemed detached from the experience; therefore, I was detached and not emotionally invested in her loss. So while I appreciated the memoir, an honest account of 18 months of her life, I didn't feel her pain. I didn't cry. I did feel outrage at a few insensitive characters in her journey but I did not cry. Very sad indeed.

Thank you to my friend Cheri who let me borrow this one. On to book #2, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. This one appears to be an Oprah book pick as well.