This writer is a very articulate, over-analytical, self-indulgent widow examining the sudden loss of her husband, from whom she was soon to be divorced. Her use of figurative language is amazing, and, at times, very artistic, but page after page of her detailed weeping and wailing grew tiresome. I mean, all right, already, I got it in the first 100 or so pages that her eyes suffered from swelling due to the abundant tears, and she would collapse on the floor or onto a sofa in the fetal position, but this went on from beginning to end even when she shopped at an Aldi store in her home state of Iowa, for heaven sakes. Sorrow is great and real, but did we have to go over and over all the crying events? The thesis that the world needs more pie is trite, rediculous, and unconvincing. At times, however, she had a wonderful grasp of humor and hyperbole, and that was fun. The fact that her journey through life, in her 50 years or so, has taken her all over this country and Europe as she moved around, and it convinces me that this return to her home state of Iowa, to reside in the famous American Gothic house of the Grant Wood painting, will only result in another impulsive move somewhere else where she will indulge her descriptions of grief. I mean, did we have to have the details of her two night stand during her widowhood when she was attending a pie-baking contest where she was supposed to be a judge? What was the purpose of that? OK, Beth, you've said enough: your husband died suddenly, but this was not the first time the two of you were planning to divorce; you baked pies all your life, now see what else you can write about, but, remember, the best writing is performed with restraint and less-sentimentality.