Going There

Image via The New York Times

Happy holidays. Our holiday season has been low-key, filled with yummy takeout, baking and movies. As always I've been devouring books each night, most recently Katie Couric's memoir Going There.

I like Katie Couric and I like her book. Couric is accomplished, having worked incredibly hard throughout her career. She certainly has chutzpah. And I appreciate her candor throughout her autobiography, on everything from raising her kids to her texts with Matt Lauer after he was accused of sexual assault. Couric has dealt with a ton of adversity and heartbreak throughout her life; she has survived devastating tragedies. I respect her greatly.

Do I love her memoir? No. Going There has quick, digestible chapters. It's well-written and interesting. But the book is not soulful. Couric might "go there" but she doesn't get deep and share vulnerabilities. Maybe she doesn't have any. Couric reveals that it didn’t occur to her until around age 40 - when a therapist pointed it out - that some people might not like her. Bravo to her parents for raising the most confident person, seemingly ever.

Couric does share some good details in her book, but she does a lot of telling vs. showing. And there isn't a whole lot of emotion in her writing. I don't feel connected to her like I do with other memoirists, like Andre Agassi. I don't need to have much in common with a writer to feel connected to him or her, I just need to be let in a bit more, be exposed to said writer's messy, raw humanity.

AES