Leana Stevens' Diary: My Memories and Dreams

1 star out of 5

Once in a great while, a reviewer is blessed with the privilege of uncovering a hidden gem and conveying the triumphant news to the literary public. In pieces such as these, every chapter, every idea, every word leads to a deeper truth than a mere printed text. Yes, even the very pages and ink seem to convey a physical insight into the human spirit we as readers are fortunate enough to bask in. For those of you looking for such a book to read when you're snuggling up in a big wool blanket next to a fire, do not read My Memories and Dreams Leana Stevens.

The first person style of this book gave me flashbacks to the Beverly Cleary classic Dear Mr. Henshaw, but this book fell far short of honoring this comparison. My first complaint was in obtaining a copy for review. I normally receive books well in advance, as part of a press junket. However, only I happened upon this book while rummaging through my roommate's personal belongings. Sure enough, beneath the mattress, next to a roll of condoms and a tattered picture of her grandmother, there it was.

As soon as I began reading, I realized I should have left it behind like so many of the used birth control devices it was buried with. The characters in this book are far too dull and boring to carry an entire text. This book is supposed to invoke a level of realism, but the characters seem far too caricatured to do anything of the sort.

First, we meet the stereotypical father figures. Her natural father left her mother when Leana was just 3, then after a string of abusive boyfriends, her mother finally settled on a man, who despite his repeated sexual advances toward a then 8 year old Leana, was the only positive role model in her life. How many times have we read and seen this contrived storyline?

Of course her mother is a neglectful alcoholic who doesn't protect Leana against her stepfather, and this is merely one of the tiny details that peppers Leana's pathetic life in a vain attempt at obtaining the reader's sympathy. The plot also does little to enhance the reading experience. Conforming to the emerging style of free-lance storytelling, My Memories seems to be more of a character study than a traditional novel, with no real exposition. We are supposed to join Leana on her personal journey from childhood, to high school, and now to college. This technique has been utilized successfully by many wonderful contemporary authors, and in most cases is successful. This is impossible, however, due to the inanity of the main character. One of the few redeeming passages is where she intimately describes the crush she had on her high school's star quarterback, Andrew Vogel, and how she pines for him to this day despite the fact he's now studying abroad and engaged to a French waitress.

Still, in this egocentric self-homage, the protagonist is completely one-dimensional. We feel no real attachment to her, and thus don't really care when we discover that she has a life-threatening eating disorder, is failing most of her classes, and her roommate breaks into her closet and sells her CDs to buy heroin. Everyone she befriends betrays her, her boyfriends just use her for sex, she's poor so she has to work two jobs and share a one-bedroom apartment with a complete stranger. Halfway through her predictable narration, I traded any sympathy I may have had for her for feelings of resentment toward her naiveté. I grew sick of the oft-repeated pattern of listing "resolutions for change," followed by her struggle to embrace them and the inevitable shame spiral that accompanied each failure.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Soon the diary turns into a laundry list of life-style complaints and downers scattered among the sort of pseudo intellectual tripe one would expect from an author who has obviously seen a few too many Kevin Smith movies. The only interesting part is when she questions the notion of a God since she is made to suffer so much. But these few paragraphs where she realizes her life is completely void of meaning do nothing to make up the 22 years of boring, contrived writing.

That's why I gave her diary 1 out of 5 stars. It's not good reading, but you can use it to start a fire or as a small lap desk. I'd post it on the Internet, but that would be just one more petty thing to complain about in this already pathetic life story.