This book was interesting. I wouldn’t say it was bad but Your Voice in My Head by Emma Forrest is definitely not a feel good book. Emma Forrest chronicles her struggle with depression and self-mutilation. Depression is not something I relate to, so this book wasn’t powerful for me as so many of the reviews stated. I don’t mean to belittle the Emma Forrest’s struggles, but after reading this book I have no desire to see this movie. Which is now being released in 2014 instead of 2013, oops.
Throughout this book, Forrest discusses her relation ship with her therapist, Dr. R, her mother and all of the men in her life and how each one of them effects her emotional state. She knows her relationships are often unhealthy but doesn’t know how to untangle herself from them.
I didn’t actually read this book, I listened to it. Perhaps if I had read it I would have connected a bit more, but because I was listening to the book it was easy to tune out and pay attention to other things. For instance, the great love of Forrest’s life is someone she calls DH or maybe GH? I didn’t hear her first start talking about him and explaining who he was because I had tuned out. Perhaps I didn’t really read this book at all and more accurately just got through it.
I did think Your Voice in My Head was Written well and if you’d like to read it you can get a copy here.
With Your Voice in My Head completed I can mark another book off my lists of 2013 reads. And thanks to my completion of Garden Spells Last week, my list is 8 books long. I started reading J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy last week and hope to have that book completed quickly so that I can re-read The Great Gatsby before the movie comes out on May 10th.
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There is a sound that most humans will experience many times in life, that, despite being perfectly ordinary and extremely frequent, never fails to awaken a soul-crushing sadness deep
within our minds. This is the precise feeling that stirred
me each morning, as my alarm clock stirred me from sleep.
I awoke as if my alarm clock had unexpectedly
poked me with a cattle prod. My eyes shot open, while my body catapulted itself out of bed.
I stood for a moment, surveying my immaculately clean, and meticulously modern bedroom, and allowed my mind
a chance to catch up with my movements. My girlfriend managed to
stay sound asleep through this fiasco, and looked peaceful as ever.
I glanced at the clock, and like many other mornings before this one, realized my scramble to
wake up and get going was fruitless. I was up early, and there
was no need to rush. The real urgency was coming from
my own personal rush to break away from my horribly mundane existence.
My name is Justin Rylands, and my life is not bad by any means.
I am 27 years old with a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration from Princeton.
My father, Drew Rylands, was responsible for starting one
of the most successful dental technology distribution warehouses in the United States, and this provided me with a guaranteed,
top dollar sales position since the day I exited
my mother’s womb. I have a sought-after career, a beautiful girlfriend, an apartment that looks like
a Home Goods catalog came to life, and a picture perfect family.
I was not rebellious growing up, and I equate this to my wealthy
upbringing, and well-structured, loving parents. I was always handsome, and intelligent.
I was dedicated to school, and sports, and rarely ever distracted by
girls. I was disinterested in parties, and the counterproductive activities my peers got off on.
I was a born success story. I was everything
any parent could ask for, and they were well aware of this.
I was nothing at all like my insurgent older brother who’d flown the coop when I was
13. My parents had convinced me that, “Andy went away for college, because
that’s what young men do when they turn 18.” But I knew this was a lie, even
as a child. My brother was an absolute shit head, and I was a firsthand witness to his teen years full
of underage drinking and cutting class. I can recall numerous late nights that ended in my mother sobbing on the couch while my
father was on the phone explaining to the cops what crime his hooligan son got himself caught up in now.
It was not until I was 17, and overheard a phone
call between my brother and father, that I finally discovered Andy had run off
with a group of glass blowing hippies who crafted marijuana pipes
and travelled the country with the small amount of money
they made selling these “art pieces”. I was never entirely able to grasp why this lifestyle brought
my brother so much joy, but after 4 years of this perpetuating 9 to 5 grind, I
started to wonder if Andy had the right idea after all.
“Morning Boss,” I said, half-joking to my father upon stepping into his office.
“Ah, my son! Bright and early as always. Just like your father.” He clapped
his hand on my back and gave me that classic, fatherly grin.
“I’ve got a project for you.” I cringed. I figured this meant I’d be planning another painfully boring charity event for inner-city children with no dental insurance.
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