There are two main reasons I doubt I'll ever write a memoir of my childhood. First, I would be afraid of what my mom would say if I aired our dirty laundry. And second, I hesitate to put into print just one version of the story of my growing-up. For while it was just the one childhood I lived, there are so many different ways to frame the same events, and I would rather not tie myself into just one interpretation. 
 Even though The Glass Castle was largely a laundry-list account of the events of Walls's childhood, it still reflects a specific interpretation of the events. I'm not saying the events didn't happen, but rather that they would look different if viewed from a different angle or through a different filter. Walls's parents certainly saw the events she describes differently than she did. What they saw as a series of adventures and parenting choices that fostered independence and strength of character, Walls saw as trauma and neglect as a result of her parents' selfishness. I tend to side with Walls's perspective on this one, but I'm not certain it's any more valid a perspective than her mother's. 
 What amazes me about this story is that the family managed to stay together, for the most part. Or, seen in a different light, of course they stayed together because they were all locked to one another by codependency. It's a lucky thing Walls's parents moved the family around so much when they were younger. If she'd been born and raised in Welch, I doubt she would have ever left. Moving away from home takes a certain mindset, and the fact that Walls was accustomed to moving from place to place I think made it easier for her to leave when the time came. This was my favorite part of the book, actually, Walls and her sister planning their escape. Up until then it was just this depressing reminder of how dependent children are on their families. 
 So, there were things I liked about this book, but there was also plenty I didn't like. I've already mentioned the "first this happened, then that happened" style of the book, which made it feel repetitive. It was also difficult to keep track of what age she was at each place, and although I didn't write down a timeline, I suspect that the anecdotes don't fit together in time quite right. Walls didn't age uniformly in comparison with her siblings, and years passed in fits and starts that left me feeling disoriented. The repetition of language heightened this feeling---more than once Walls mentions that her mother "didn't drink anything stronger than tea," in those same words. 
 I just prefer a little more art in a memoir. And I prefer Half Broke Horses (although I do think that title needs a hyphen).