The author dedicates the book to Hugh MacLennan then goes on to, quite disingenuously, tarnish his memory. The writing is more than competent, it's the content that I question. Had the story been presented as a fictional account of a very self-centred girl hungry for validation from a kind, indulgent neighbour/writer, I'd have no problem with it. Presenting it as creative non-fiction with all its vague implications seems like a betrayal of one of our most accomplished and respected writers. Too bad Mr. MacLennan is no longer here to share his memories of the girl who sought so much of his attention and then grew up to take advantage of his kindness and generosity in such an underhanded way.