How many stars do you give a human life?
The harder question is what we do with Liz Gilbert’s words. Do we dock her stars because she isn’t perfect, because she’s human and flailing and not always tasteful? One star for imperfection, five stars for bravery? I know one thing for sure — I shudder to think how many stars I’d get from my own family and friends through the course of my “becoming.” Maybe the real work is to stop making saints out of writers, and stop burning them at the stake when they don’t live up to the statues we built.
Liz Gilbert reminds me that a “successful life” isn’t really about what you’ve achieved, but more about what you’ve crawled through and lived to tell about. And God knows, she tells about it.
For me, reading this book was complicated. I’m 62, a lesbian raised in the Catholic church, where secrets were the family currency. We didn’t talk; we swallowed. And so when Lizzie tells all — the raw, unflattering, sometimes too-much detail — a part of me recoils. Another part of me knows this is her truth-telling, and it is costly.
I like anyone who’s trying. Liz is trying. Sometimes stumbling, sometimes too much — but trying. And that’s more than enough.