Ayalet Waldman's book entitled Bad Mother intrigues me, not because she talks about loving her husband more than her children, but because she writes about such a topic at all.
And it makes me wonder about the whole issue of motherhood, family, and privacy. I can't imagine writing about how much or how little I loved my family members--for any reason.
We have a peek-a-boo culture these days, fostered by Internet toys like Facebook and Twitter. And by blogs. And by "tell-all" essays and memoirs.
Is it because we are so isolated, in our little family units that almost never make contact with other people in any significant way, that we seek to lay bare the nauseatingly intimate (and rather dull) details of our family lives, exposing them to complete strangers?
I don't quite understand where it's all leading, but the degree to which people participate in this sort of thing seems bizarre to me. It seems to have taken over our talk shows, our nonfiction bestseller lists, our Internet chatting.
What are we really accomplishing with all that confession?
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