Self-conscious memoirs: no thanks

Reading best of lists last month, I noticed that Michael Greenberg's "Beg Borrow Steal: A Writer's Life" showed up many times. At first this was a good sign. Finally something I hadn't heard of before that I might truly enjoy. But as I turned the pages of this collection of Greenberg's columns from the Times Literary Supplement, it became increasingly clear that this was not something that I would enjoy. Greenberg writes with a wincingly high level of self-consciousness. For most of his life, before the publication of his well-received memoir Hurry Down Sunshine, Greenberg knew what he looked like to most people. He was a struggling writer slash high school drop-out. This becomes apparent in his writing. While Greenberg is frank about all his exploits, he also has a way of suggesting that he is nobler than others who may be wealthier or more respected by society. For instance, the book begins with an anecdote about Greenberg's refusal to join his father's business of scrap metal. Right off the bat: "My old man was like Zeus's father Cronos: he couldn't bear the idea that any of his children might surpass him." Thus, Greenberg's escape to the writer's life is a noble fuck-you to his father, as his life is a fuck-you to society.

But is it really glamorous to live in government subsidized housing, to try to rent your room on Craigslist in order to make more money, to hold on to a dog that bites children, to have an established publisher tell you that your work is everything he hates about fiction, to obsessively check your Amazon rank? Or is it just irresponsible?

Perhaps the reason for its high praise is that so many other writers identify with Greenberg. But as a younger, cynical reader, I can't forgive his indulgence.