This week I sped through Suzanne Finnamore’s Split: A Memoir of Divorce. I didn’t get through it so quickly because I loved it though. Instead, I pin it all on the short chapters. They get me every time. I come to the end of one chapter and think, hey, I’ve got time to read one more.
But I digress.
I did not particularly enjoy Split. Perhaps I just couldn’t relate. I’ve never been divorced (or married!) nor was I a product of divorce (I’m lucky). However, I have read plenty of memoirs, many of which had nothing to do with anything I could relate to, and it doesn’t necessarily mean I won’t like it. The author has to make me care.
And Finnamore tried. I just found it hard to to sympathize. I don’t know that she established well enough why she loved her husband so much in the first place. And I’m not sure I always understood her actions in the divorce. Of course, that’s life and people don’t always make the best choices. I guess I just didn’t feel like she explained her choices well enough. Everything sort of jumped around. Maybe I can blame that on the short chapters too.
I’m sure if I was getting divorced, though, I would appreciate Split much more. It would be comforting to know someone else felt depressed, crazy, irrational, relief and more all mixed together. It would be nice to identify with the loss of control and the loss of identity. While that’s all good to know, I hope I never actually need Split in that way.