After I had read My Own Country, I wanted to read more about AIDS, specifically the personal experience. I already knew that HIV was passed through blood and mucuous membranes, and wasn't interested in sermonizing. I wanted to see what it was like for different people living with it (and to some extent, dying with it). So I ordered this book because I read about it being about a heterosexual woman. My interest was piqued.
The writing is not bad. It's not high art, but Hofmann has a certain flair that made her choice of words and imagery work. But her "voice" grated on my nerves some, and that could be a personality thing (maybe we wouldn't be bestest friends?), but I don't think that's entirely true. There was something defensive in her tone, something that smacked of shame. It's like when you ask someone if she is "fine" and she says it loudly, as if the volume of the voice can make it true. I also sensed an urgency. Hofmann is clearly a passionate woman with a cause, and I can do nothing but respect that.
I was more than a little disappointed with how daily trials and accomplishments were glossed over. When things were mentioned (select illnesses, taking pills, visiting doctors) they were just casually thrown out there like scraps. I could live with not reading a gritty tell-all, but the style of this memoir is more in the vein of celebrities and well-known political figures. Just because you write a book about yourself doesn't mean that the reader is in agreement as to how important you are. I also didn't appreciate some of the sermonizing. As as reader, I feel a bit trapped and misled when I'm reading along and there's an editorial embedded. Add to that a condescending air and some bad analogies, and it's enough to make a reader groan.
I did appreciate the upbeat message at the book's conclusion, and I was glad that I had read it. It just wasn't what I thought it would be.
I may go to poz.com one day, but I doubt I'd read another book from this author.