So, I've been seeing posts all over the book blogosphere announcing nominees for different BBAW awards. The excitement is palpable. I love it. True, I may have been the teensiest, tiniest bit green-eyed, but really, I've been so happy for all of you. I mean, I would have been delighted to have been nominated for best giveaways ('cuz I've been rocking them this year), or best design (you gotta admit, it's cute), or best anything at all. But, no. Nothing. I sniffed a little, then got over myself (well, kind of). So, imagine my surprise when an email arrived in my inbox today reminding me to submit 5 of my best pieces to the judging committee. Huh? Turns out, I never received the first email letting me know I've been nominated in the category of Best Writing. Can I just tell you that I'm thrilled beyond words? I work hard on this little ole blog of mine and I'm honored - not to mention surprised - that anyone clicks over here at all. So, thank you, thank you for this. It means so much to me!

Last month, Melissa over at One Librarian's Book Reviews asked, "Do you find yourself viewing books through morally-tinted glasses? Do you think this detracts from your enjoyment of certain types of stories (those that grate against your personal beliefs)?" These questions kept rolling around in my mind as I read What I Thought I Knew, a memoir by Alice Eve Cohen. The truth is, there are several issues in her book that I find morally reprehensible. Because of this, I wondered if I could evaluate it fairly - not only am I "grading" her book here, but I'm also judging it against five other memoirs to determine which Elle magazine will deem best non-fiction book of 2009. This is the conclusion I came to: No matter a book's subject, I can judge its merits fairly when it comes to writing, editing, plot construction, character development, originality, etc. Of course, the best books are not always those with the best editing, or the most exciting plot - for me, the greatest are those that capture me and proceed to thrill my heart and soul. Connection is key, but when it comes to that, my "morally-tinted glasses" can sometimes be problematic. I, like all of you, approach every book I read carrying my own moral, religious, and political ideas, as well as the breadth of my personal experience - no matter how open-minded I tell myself to be, all of these things color how I view a book. This is especially true in the case of Cohen's book. Technically, it's well-written; truthfully, it turned my stomach.

In 1999, Cohen is finally happy. After battling infertility, enduring a divorce, fighting for custody of her 3-year-old adopted daughter, struggling as a single parent, and trying to make enough money to pay the bills, she's finally feeling some of her burdens lifting. She's engaged to a man 10 years her junior - Michael's her own personal fountain of youth. He's kind, creative, in love with both her and her daughter. At 44, she's found success in both her personal and professional lives; there's no reason to believe her future will be anything but bright. In the back of her mind, though, lurks her Jewish mother who constantly warned against tempting the Evil Eye by enjoying too much happiness. Turns out, her mother knew what she was talking about.

Cohen's joy drains as illness takes over. She's nauseated, sore, and completely exhausted. Any woman who's ever been pregnant recognizes these sypmtoms for what they are, except that Cohen is infertile. Because of a Bicornuate uterus, she can't get pregnant. Her doctors search for a diagnosis, offering everything from early menopause to "middle-aged loss of muscle tone" (14) to a bladder disorder. Finally, an emergency CAT scan reveals the truth: she's 6 months pregnant. Considering her advanced age, plus the fact that she's taken estrogen for years, received no prenatal monitoring, and unknowingly put her baby at risk, she's not surprised to find that the fetus is not developing normally. Terrified, Cohen considers abortion, suicide, adoption. She wrestles with herself over the ramifications of "killing ... what might be a viable baby" (55), of dealing with a preemie or a special needs child, of not raising her own baby, and of bringing to life a child she already detests. "I try every day," she writes, "to want a baby" (66).

The pregnancy ends in an unexpected way, which throws everything into a completely different light. Suffering from severe post-partum depression and an "unforgivable ambivalence" (135), Cohen makes her way blindly through this confusing, new landscape. Doubting herself, despising herself, and ultimately learning to trust herself, Alice Eve Cohen comes to revise everything she thought she knew.

Like Cohen, I possess a malformed uterus; I've dealt with infertility; I've worried over raising a premature or special needs child; I've hated myself for providing an inadequate incubator for the fetus growing inside me; and my life has been changed by adoption. Considering all that we have in common, I should have found in Cohen a bosom buddy. Maybe our differences are just too glaring: she's a liberal agnostic from New York, I'm a conservative Mormon from the west. I abhor abortion, and find the whole idea of wrongful life lawsuits (which comes into play in What I Thought I Knew) repugnant on so many levels. While I admire Cohen's courage (it takes a lot of guts to admit you hated your baby on sight), to me she came off mostly as a selfish whiner. I know that's harsh and will probably earn me an angry comment or two, but that's how I feel. I've been told I don't understand depression and chemical imbalances, and that's probably true - I've always been a happy, positive person who tends to believe that if I can deal with the crap of life without complaining, so can you. So, while I didn't enjoy this book (in fact, much of it made me sick to my stomach), I can at least appreciate the fact that it helped me empathize with another woman's heartbreak. I'm sure there are hundreds of women out there who will find that Cohen says everything they've thought and felt. I am not one of those women. But, I can admit that this book made me think. It's haunted me since I put it down. Do I recommend it? I don't know.

Technically speaking, What I Thought I Knew is well-written. Not beautifully, not brilliantly, not lushly. In fact, it's very stark and unsentimental. Honest. It's also choppy and frenzied in places. The story's engrossing, if not engaging. Cohen describes herself and her circle of family, friends, and associates in ways that make them interesting, human and sympathetic. It's an affecting story, but not necessarily a touching one. Does that make sense?

I think what I'm trying to say is this: What I Thought I Knew by Alice Eve Cohen is technically well-written, but I wouldn't call it enjoyable. Many will connect with this novel (see Melissa's review, for instance). I didn't. If it were possible to remove my "morally-tinted glasses" or if I wasn't the person I am, maybe I would have liked it better, but it isn't and I'm not. The most I can do is admit my prejudices and move on.

(Note: If you're interested in reading more about wrongful life lawsuits, try Jodi Picoult's novel Handle With Care, reviewed here.)

Grade: C

If this were a movie, it would be rated: R for language, sexual content, and adult situations.