Missed Connections had all the ingredients of a book I should have loved. As someone who deeply relates to the gay coming-of-age experience, I found myself pulled into the emotional terrain of the letters and reflections. The feelings, the awkwardness, the longing—I saw my younger self mirrored in these pages. At times, I was even transported back to moments in my own life I’d forgotten, stirred up unexpectedly by the familiarity of what was being shared.
However, despite this strong emotional connection, the tone of the book often rubbed me the wrong way. While I appreciated the concept—responding to personal ads from decades ago—the execution left much to be desired. The writing came across as judgmental, sometimes even cruel, and surprisingly shallow. Francis, now years removed from the original events, seems to look back with a lens that lacks the compassion or self-awareness that time and maturity ideally bring. For someone revisiting heartfelt messages from men who once reached out in hope and vulnerability, the tone he takes can feel dismissive, even mocking.
I found myself wishing for more empathy, more introspection—something deeper than just clever quips or surface-level observations. Unfortunately, the snark often undermined the emotional weight these letters could have carried.
So while I did enjoy parts of this book, and while it certainly evoked something powerful in me, I can’t say I loved it. The promise of connection was overshadowed by an undercurrent of condescension. Rather than leaving me feeling seen or understood, it left me unsettled. And now, Missed Connections sits in my mind not as a cherished reflection, but as a permanent mark. A “stain”, if you will.