So, I read two memoirs this week. Well, read one, tried to read the other. Which actually got me to thinking about memoirs and what makes a good one. And yes, my random thoughts were fueled by the A Million Little Pieces debacle, though only in part.

The one I got through — Journey from the Land of No by Roya Hakakian — was an interesting, introspective, delightful yet haunting look at the Iranian revolution through the eyes of a young girl who just happened to be a Jew. I checked it out because it looked interesting (the subtitle is “A girlhood caught in Revolutionary Iran”), but I got something much more than I was expecting. I got reflections on a country changed, reflections on her faith and culture and how they didn’t always mesh. She experienced anti-Semitism, and lived through it. And, interestingly enough considering my last book group, she dealt with the rule to wear head-scarves and her feelings about it (she compared it to a uniform; something which she had to wear, but never quite felt like herself in it). It was beautifully written and an excellent book.

The other — Cursed by a Happy Childhood by Carl Lennertz — wasn’t so great. I liked the premise (or at least the title); if I ever wrote a memoir it’d be something like this. Especially since my childhood/young adulthood was neither traumatic, dramatic or remotely engaging in any way. (Sorry Mom and Dad — happy homes don’t necessarily make good books!) Still, reading the 30 pages I got through in this book was a trial, to say the least. The book tried to be witty and pithy and just fell short, at least for me. No new observations (like “Visit a library; it’s wonderful” or “My daughter is discovering that my music isn’t that bad”). No real insights. I was complaining to my husband, who (very accurately, I supposed) said, “You’re beyond this book. It’s for people who haven’t realized these things.” Yes, but who might that be? Maybe I’m just miffed because he’s already written my memoir (except I’m a woman, who lived in suburbia and will have four daughters instead of only one).

So, what makes an engaging memoir? Is it life experiences — this is where A Million Little Pieces comes in: the bigger, the badder, the more desperate makes for the great book? I know conflict makes the story (it’s only words and fluff without it), but what is it that would drive someone to make up experiences in order to sell the book? Why do we want to read about people’s lives who have been desperate (or sick, or traumatized or whatever) and have overcome? Why do we look at the ones who didn’t, and say, “Well, that’s nice, but I really don’t want to read about it”?

I wish I knew.