I started and finished listening to My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout today while I sewed medical masks for Team 3. Not a very long book. Not more than 4-5 hours of listening time.
I was moved greatly but don't have the words to say in what way. I definitely identified with much of what she wrote: my less than perfect relationship with my mother, childhood pain and loneliness, the heartbreak of having the children leave after high school, the guilt and shame of failing at my marriage, but mostly the inability to be mean and unkind to others--giving them the benefit of the doubt. Ruthless, a quality that is vital to being a good writer, she can never be.
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