True confession: I have no opinion one way or another about memoir. I have liked some and forgotten others.
But for a time, memoir was literature’s for-profit college. Its orphan home for the can’t-quite and never-will.
The worn-down casino where the addicts, the terminally ill, and the refugees from strict religion go to gamble their pain into royalties.
The genre where women can get published.
But these politics of memoir were subtext, at most, in Sarah Hepola’s recent essay on xoJane it-girl Cat Marnell. Cat Marnell spectacularly gives beauty advice couched in writing about drugs, addiction, and pain. And she recently quit to get high and write a book.