Grimsley Johnson has no idea what kind of story she is trying to tell. She starts with some trying-to-be-humorous-but-aren't stories about her childhood, then describes her newspaper life in painstaking detail, then ends on a bunch of love notes to her late husband. None of these are bad things, but they don't work well together. This is a memoir that left me feeling like I know nothing about the subject except that she's vain enough to write a memoir.