[NOTE: Sole and separate from my review of the book, I'd like to warn prospective buyers that Straight Pepper Diet is riddled with distracting typos, structural errors, and grammatical problems galore. Put simply: this is a self-published work and it shows. If you want to spend money on something that went through maybe 1.5 edits before someone deemed it ready for public consumption, that’s on you.]
Addiction memoirs are a dime a dozen—especially the ones where there's some very dramatic, very public fall from grace. And when it comes to this super-specific subgenre, it goes without saying that “very dramatic, very public” doesn’t guarantee some eye-opening, insightful or compelling cautionary tale will arrive on bookshelves. Sadly, this is no truer than it is with Straight Pepper Diet—a maddening, meandering memoir by former lawyer Joseph W. Naus, whose debut never quite arrives at a point. With Diet, the author clearly set out to accomplish one thing but unwittingly accomplishes something else entirely. And despite his many shortcomings as a storyteller, Naus does manage to reveal many truths about the recovery community and a writer’s place within it.
Very early on, alarms started going off in my head with this book. Right from the jump, you can almost see Naus desperately trying to crank all of the narrative amplifiers to 11. At nearly every turn, the stakes and consequences are never high enough for the author which, in turn, leaves the reader with the strange aftertaste of doctored details. From beginning to end, Naus proves himself to be far less of a writer than simply someone who’s been told “Wow, your life was crazy—you should write a book” a lot. Throughout Straight Pepper Diet, Naus refuses to let facts get in the way as he bends and twists his past into something that kinda resembles a classic tragedy arc—that perfect parabolic “rise and fall” journey that we’ve all seen before, minus this author’s need to exaggerate.
Based on its inexplicably positive reviews here and elsewhere, I fully expected Straight Pepper Diet to be some low-flying, under-the-radar gem about recovery. Instead, it’s as generic and tone deaf as it is boorish and shallow. This book is the equivalent of a clueless partygoer who really, really, really doesn't understand why no one's laughing at their jokes. More than anything, though, Diet demonstrates everything that’s wrong with self-publishing—especially as it pertains to anything that skirts the borders of “Self-Help.” With no regard for anyone but himself and his apparent I’ve-just-gotta-have-a-book-out-there ego, Naus has belligerently (yet successfully) pushed his way to the adult table. However, while that’s true, he’s still attached to a chair from the kids’ table. All we can do is watch Naus as he blindly tries to find a level that’s correctly beyond his reach.
If nothing else, Diet is Exhibit A in the argument that having Microsoft Word and some run-of-the-mill anecdotes doesn’t instantly qualify you as a writer. Rather than stitching together his stories in some unique and meaningful way (one where Naus could carefully guide readers through to their own self-discovery), he’s assembled a truly cringeworthy collection of clichés, bafflingly obvious observations, and stilted dialogue. Peppered with casual racism and over-the-top vulgarity, Diet is nothing more than a crass, cartoonish endurance test that brings absolutely nothing new to the table. It exists for no other reason than to exist.
One truly bizarre aspect of Diet, however, is the author’s complete inability to write about himself. He literally cannot write about himself with any authority or authenticity. While there is nothing unique about the descent of an alcoholic or an addict, there is certainly something unique in the prism through which an alcoholic or addict views themselves in recovery. As such, Naus portrays himself as this sharp, successful dude on the rise who’s beleaguered by with … wait for it… a secret life! No matter what, though, he can’t paint himself as a fully developed, relatable person. He’s clearly talented on several fronts, turns out—the strongest being his ability to compartmentalize—but this factor doesn’t make for compelling reading. Not only does this feel like Diet is a house built upon some extremely well-trodden ground, it feels like Naus doesn’t see it that way.
And instead of having any genuine self-reflection about how he navigated multiple worlds, Naus relays one forgettable story after another. Perhaps this is a byproduct of the book’s unedited form, but I suspect it’s a genuine blind spot for Naus as a writer as well as Naus as a person who can’t reflect on his life. He's self-deprecating in one moment and quietly self-aggrandizing in the next, shifting from one posture to the next like any garden variety alcoholic or addict does in real life. In one chapter alone, I counted four distinct versions of the author. Naus expects you to instantly recognize that he’s the hero (not the villain, you guys!) when in reality, he’s neither. He’s better suited as a background character in someone else’s much more fully realized story.
The greatest sin that Diet commits, however, is its dialogue, which comes off as naïve at best and dangerously ignorant at worst. For my money, no serious reader can absorb this book and come away thinking it’s not 70% fiction and 30% nonfiction. I kept getting pulled out of the book due to the fact that no one in the history of the world has ever spoken the way these ostensibly real-life characters do. This is certainly an idealized version of everyone involved, with their presence of mind and snappy retorts coming across better suited for a stage play written by high schoolers. If nothing else, it’s a masterclass in ‘Telling vs. Showing,’ ‘Talking At vs. Speaking With,’ and ‘When In Doubt, Just Drop Another F-Bomb or Racial Slur.’ Naus reminds me of that easily bruised friend everyone has in their lives— the one who preens with fake modesty whenever they get undeserved compliments, but will just as quickly shrug and say "Well, it's not like I was really trying" when the truth comes knocking.
I don't enjoy committing a negative review to print, but I've been invited to do so.
In many ways, I’m only meeting Naus down here at his talent level. If you set out to create a memoir that doesn’t care to help anyone sharing your same struggles, but you instead talk at people and throw one mind-numbingly mediocre story after another at them, you’re only making your past sins worse. All you’ve done as a writer is bring to life an aimless, smug, self-published slog riddled with typos, repetitive cliches, and a hilariously unjustified swagger. When you write about recovery, you have a responsibility. Walking into AA rooms, the unspoken truth is that we see ourselves in everyone else’s eyes—that same thousand-yard stare into the middle distance. You immediately know you’re in the right church basement. We’ve all seen glimpses of different yet identical hells. No, it’s not a crime to be a misguided first-time writer, and it’s certainly not the end of days to not quite stick the landing with your storytelling. But when you take care to go through the careful paces of publishing and promote a book about, of all things, addiction recovery — and the book itself has seen *maybe* one edit...? That's reckless.
This is a book that’s as disingenuous as its author seems to be, like a homeless person who's belligerently giving advice on real estate investments. The memoir is equally out of touch, empty and, worst of all, boring. Naus is clearly writing for an unclear audience—but it’s obvious that it is an audience he does not fully understand or appreciate. Sure, he's been leveled by addiction. Great. Congratulations. Get in line. But what is he adding to the conversation? What does he bring to the table that three dozen other authors before him haven't already done better? Instead, we have to endure a book that's nothing more than a series of "We get it already" moments that aren't self-aware so much as sadly self-indulgent.
Just like with addiction, we're all bound to sometimes repeat the same mistakes over and over, at great risk to ourselves, expecting a different result. All I can tell you is this: one surefire way to break the cycle of empty, self-serving memoirs is to never purchase this one.
P.S. There's a sequel? Somebody stop this guy.