One life.
One hundred micro-memoirs.
One woman's remembrances told in one hundred word vignettes.
Filled with honesty, humor, and a keen sense of self-awareness, Without You, I Would Be Nothing chronicles the lessons Brooke L. Davis has learned during her half century of life.
Raised in Indiana during the seventies and eighties (when the hair was big, the colors were bright, and the music was epic), Davis recounts precocious girlhood escapades, unpredictable life detours, and the eventual sobering realization of her own mortality.
Each crisp one hundred word micro-memoir takes the reader on a journey through universal themes such as navigating childhood, surviving a serious illness, coming of age, and enduring sorrow as those we love pass on. Most of all, her memories are a nod to how the powers of family and place influence and shape us.
Whether uprooting a houseplant and repotting it in her bathroom sink as a six-year-old or musing on an eclipse that darkened the sky two days after her father’s viewing, Davis’ stories weave together a sometimes humorous, sometimes heartbreaking tale that is both timely and relatable.
One life.
One hundred micro-memoirs.
One woman's remembrances told in one hundred word vignettes.
Filled with honesty, humor, and a keen sense of self-awareness, Without You, I Would Be Nothing chronicles the lessons Brooke L. Davis has learned during her half century of life.
Raised in Indiana during the seventies and eighties (when the hair was big, the colors were bright, and the music was epic), Davis recounts precocious girlhood escapades, unpredictable life detours, and the eventual sobering realization of her own mortality.
Each crisp one hundred word micro-memoir takes the reader on a journey through universal themes such as navigating childhood, surviving a serious illness, coming of age, and enduring sorrow as those we love pass on. Most of all, her memories are a nod to how the powers of family and place influence and shape us.
Whether uprooting a houseplant and repotting it in her bathroom sink as a six-year-old or musing on an eclipse that darkened the sky two days after her father’s viewing, Davis’ stories weave together a sometimes humorous, sometimes heartbreaking tale that is both timely and relatable.
Knock on Wood
On April 7, 1971, I kicked myself off the couch to help my mom take out the trash. At three months old, I couldn’t walk but was curious and wanted to follow her to the garage. There was a thump (thank God for the Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor) and loud wailing. My horrified mother rushed back inside, comforted me, and wouldn’t let me sleep because she thought I might have a head injury. I didn’t. Now when I leap off the couch, I risk cracking my knees on the coffee table instead of my head on the floor.
Warp Speed
My father handed me up to the lady wrangler at the tender age of two, and away we trotted down the gravel road outside the corral at the Montana ranch where my family was staying. I surveyed the world from what felt like a hundred feet up, yet remained safe as we bumped and lurched past hayfields that melted into the distant foothills. That first ride was the start of my love affair with horses and the west. Sure-footed animals with velvety noses carried me into beautiful wildernesses. In later years, I hid my tears when I had to leave.
Balded by Love
As a toddler, I loved Suzie Doll so much that the hair on the back of her head wore off and she was left with a scratchy, cropped, bristle-brush–like mohawk. I carried her around in a headlock and napped with her every day in my crib. My mother sewed colorful cotton print dresses for her and patched her worn body twice in ecru muslin. Suzie traveled in high (suitcase) style to Michigan, Montana, and California. As with love and comfort, there are possessions we can’t live without, and Suzie’s hair was the price she paid for being my everything.
Reading this book was like flicking through someone else’s photograph album. The structure consists of a series of recollections, which are the memoir equivalent of flash fiction. They take a chronological pathway through from the author’s childhood and onwards through their life. However, these are mostly descriptive pieces that present events and activities without really giving the reader anything to reflect upon or deconstruct. It’s all very straightforward in that browsing through a photo album kind of way, rather than being challenging or thought-provoking. This is one of the main problems with memoir in general - the author is writing about their own life rather than creating an interesting fiction. If there’s no hook to pique the reader’s interest, all you end up with is meaningless images.
I don’t have any connection to the author and I didn’t develop any sense of connection whilst reading this book. I found the micro-chapters disjointed and difficult to engage with. There wasn’t enough of anyone or anything as a theme throughout the book to draw it together and/or make me care about the author or to make me interested in her life. I’m not sure who this book was written for, or the audience that the author had in mind while she was writing it.
The writing style itself is very basic but the text has been well edited and it is presented attractively for what it is. The cover is bland and looks unprofessional, but the content appears to have been given appropriate attention. Still, it wasn’t for me.
I’m giving this book 1.5/5 and rounding up to two. Technically there’s nothing wrong with it - it just isn’t interesting.