The more I read this book, the more my anger and frustration morphed into sympathy for Erivo. It is clear she is a private person who did not want to write a memoir, and yet, a memoir was required of her on the Wicked press tour. Rather than give an account of her life, she tries, valiantly, to connect the vignettes of herself that she’s willing to share to her fans — which of course invariably fall flat. (How can someone connect to a fragment/idealized celebrity?) The result is a bizarre memoir/self-help hybrid that neither reveals nor inspires.
Ultimately, reading this book felt like listening to Erivo in an interview, where we are always kept at arms’ length away from the real her in a very controlled environment. (And that’s ok! That’s her prerogative!) While I was left wanting simply more of her life, I also want her to be able to give simply less of herself in future projects.