Memoir or novel? It seems to be semi-autobiographical. Tracy is a self-insert (or maybe the opposite of a self-insert; a device to remove oneself from the narrative). The author avoids difficult introspection. She tries to be raw and honest but from a safe distance and with the defence of this being a work of fiction. Not that novels can’t be raw and honest, but this particular book has detachment baked in.

What makes this particularly frustrating is the spotlighting of art; artworks presented and deconstructed, songwriting demonstrated with the intention behind lyrics explained. It sets the reader up to analyse and interpret this novel. But I really don’t know what to make of it. Maybe that detachment I mentioned is entirely intentional on the author’s part; Tracy drifts aimlessly until she finds an inspiring grownup to imprint upon, she goes along with what they want, then there’s a timeskip and she’s out, she’s making music, she’s having lots of sex, but none of it feels real (maybe because she’s not real, she’s a fictional version of something real), and this could be a meta commentary on the nature of autobiography and storytelling more broadly, with direct comparison drawn with the dissociation that so many trans people experience as they reflect upon their lives and transitions, as well as the disruption brought on by trauma. Or maybe not. Was it the author’s intention to make me think about intention? Or am I trying to project meaning onto something that is ultimately shallow and only gesturing at depth and substance?

I really did want to like this book but every time I thought it might be doing something interesting, something annoying would happen (eg: everyone clapped). I’ve been left with lots of questions that I don’t feel compelled to seek answers for. It is what it is.