This is an intense, beautifully-written novel about a family’s most intimate dysfunctional moments, told without self-indulgence. The main characters are a married novelist, her addicted teenage daughter and difficult mother. Everything that isn’t about these women feels unnecessary, and the storyline about the novelist’s lover has too much prominence. But the meat of the novel, troubled mother-child relationships across three generations, is gripping. The daughter’s explosive downward spiral is hard to look away from, but the novelist’s relationship with her mother, as child and adult, is also engrossing in a way that is reminiscent of Gwendoline Riley. There is a recurring discussion of fiction and autobiography that hints at how it relates to Myerson’s own life. But most readers won’t care. Nonfiction is superb.
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A brilliantly written memoir or novel. From the title through every chapter the reader is challenged to question which it is. Whether the pain described is imagined or invented really doesn’t matter, you get drawn in and reflect on thoughts and feelings that might resonate with your own life. Definitely not for the feint-hearted, but I couldn’t put it down.
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I’ve read everything Julie Myerson has written and think she is an amazing storyteller, this doesn’t disappoint. It is a sometimes harrowing book but honest and empathetic . The voice of the narrator is so relatable. Loved it.
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This is a lovely novel, very moving and well-written. Highly recommended.
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I found it to be .. moving serious. true
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Myerson’s skill for peeling back the layers of family life and staring, unflinchingly, at what is revealed is indisputable. And in her latest novel, Nonfiction, her knack for creating atmosphere is as spot-on as ever. What takes this novel (with its meta title) a step further is how the story also circles back to the question of what a writer needs to lay bare, what to leave out and what it takes to create. There’s a claustrophobic, compulsive urgency to the story of trying to save a daughter from addiction and that alone is enough to keep you hooked. But what runs parallel is the idea of writing as a way of defining one’s self, firming up the hazy edges that get consistently nibbled away at by being a wife, a mother and a daughter. There's also lots to take away and think about on the question of ‘truth’ vs ‘fiction’, with different versions of the storyline sliding in and out of focus. But, for me, the real truth of this book is how it connects to the reader. In laying emotions bare, Myerson also makes the reader feel 'seen'. And, as the narrator says of her (terrifyingly well drawn) mother, 'Isn’t that what we all want, for people to see us clearly?'
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Bleakest of subject matter, but nonetheless I really enjoyed this book. Felt extremely real…
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