Loved this book and truly thought I wouldn’t. First person
narratives put me off in general, and this one by an eleven-year-old pop star?
I don’t even know why I bought it. But I know why I stayed with it: an
authentic voice managing to convey an experience that is just about as foreign
as I can image – dealing with the strains of being a teeny bopper (does anyone
use that term anymore?) phenom. Everything was dead on, from the zonked out yet
brutal stage mama to the mercenary crew to the bodyguard with the heart of
gold. The prose is sophisticated without sacrificing the eleven-year-old voice;
the New Yorker parody for example, is laugh-out-loud perfect. Even the
redemptive and positive ending didn’t cloy, as it so easily could have. I woke
up at three a.m. and stayed in bed until eight finishing this, and you will too
if you give it a chance.
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