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Autobiography of Us: A Novel

4.0 15
by Aria Beth Sloss

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Coming of age in the patrician neighborhood of Pasadena, California, during the 1960s, Rebecca Madden and her beautiful, reckless friend Alex dream of lives beyond white gloves and cocktail parties, beyond their mothers' narrow expectations. As change sweeps the nation—civil rights, Vietnam, women's liberation—the two girls'



Coming of age in the patrician neighborhood of Pasadena, California, during the 1960s, Rebecca Madden and her beautiful, reckless friend Alex dream of lives beyond white gloves and cocktail parties, beyond their mothers' narrow expectations. As change sweeps the nation—civil rights, Vietnam, women's liberation—the two girls' determination to chart a different course brings them closer, until one sweltering evening the summer before their last year of college, when a single act of betrayal changes everything. Decades later, Rebecca's haunting meditation on the past reveals the truth about that night, the years that followed, and the friendship that shaped her. A confession of hopes long forgotten, Aria Beth Sloss' Autobiography of Us is an achingly beautiful portrait of a decades-long bond and the victories, sacrifices, and defeats of a generation.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“[A] gorgeous first novel...Raw and vital, Autobiography of Us leaves us marveling at the strange, beautiful architecture of redemption.” —Maggie Shipstead, author of Seating Arrangements

“Engaging...Explores the loves, losses, and shifting friendship of two privileged Southern California girls.” —People

“Delicate, bittersweet.” —USAToday.com

“Powerful...Both moving and engrossing.” —Parade

“Plays out [two] friends' complicated dynamic against a tableau of enormous changes for women...[Autobiography of Us] blossoms in stirring and surprising ways.” —The New York Times

“[A] sharply imagined debut...Sloss writes with assured grace, capturing the conflicted sensibilities of a generation of women.” —O, The Oprah Magazine

“An homage to friendship.” —Marie Claire

“Every female friendship has a script of its own. The one playing out in this debut novel is a gripping hybrid--Beaches crossed with Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” —More Magazine

“A fiercely intelligent and captivating debut and an intimate portrait of female friendship, Autobiography of Us illuminates the challenges faced by an entire generation of American women.” —Jennifer Vanderbes, author of Easter Island and Strangers at the Feast

“A smooth first-person narrative…The story's hopeful end is tempered with the realization that, had the central characters been born a generation later, maybe their lives would have been better.” —Publishers Weekly

“Captivating, engrossing, surprising…Sloss' debut novel sweeps across the tumultuous events of the late 1950s through the 1980s and…celebrates the terrible struggle to find one's identity as it elegiacally rues the necessary losses.” —Kirkus

“At its heart, the novel is a tragic elegy to spirited women in decades past who were forced to silence their dreams and desires, and whose lives were not what they might otherwise have been.” —Shelf Awareness

“In Autobiography of Us, Sloss captures not only the lives of two passionate and intelligent women but that very particular moment in American history when expectations about women and families were beginning to change--I felt Alex and Rebecca's pains and pleasures as my own. A beautifully written and utterly captivating novel.” —Margot Livesey, author of The Flight of Gemma Hardy

“A masterly portrait of the lives of two indelible characters, one 'good' girl, one 'bad,' Aria Beth Sloss's fiercely imagined Autobiography of Us is a wrenching, provocative story of thwarted friendship, ambition, and love. It marks a stunning debut from a bold new talent.” —Kate Walbert, author of A Short History of Women and Our Kind

“In Aria Beth Sloss's marvelous debut novel, the passage of time brings love and pain and friendship, then reverses them all--a brilliant chronicle of women's lives in America.” —Andrew Sean Greer, author of The Story of a Marriage and The Confessions of Max Tivoli

“A heartrending novel of two girls, the women they become, and the bond they forge that endures into the next generation. Aria Beth Sloss has written a lyrical and deeply moving love letter to the power of friendship.” —Ellen Feldman, author of Lucy and Next to Love

The New York Times - Janet Maslin
Autobiography of Us is more artful and less awkward than it first seems. Rebecca's guilelessness gives this platonic love affair a credibility it might otherwise lack. And with surprising ease, the book plays out the friends' complicated dynamic against a tableau of enormous changes for women, resulting in a potent story of altered expectations and thwarted dreams…To her credit, [Sloss] does not frame an easy contrast between Alex's fate and Rebecca's; she writes compassionately about both of them and avoids glib judgment…A book that begins unremarkably blossoms in stirring and surprising ways.
Publishers Weekly
A smooth first-person narrative about two best friends who come of age in 1960s Pasadena marks Sloss's layered debut novel. Alex is beautiful, theatrical, and comes from wealth. Introspective, secretive, and brainy narrator Rebecca lives "house-poor" with her earnest father and beautiful, thrifty mother, who wants her daughter to have what she lost during the Depression. Once inseparable, the friends strike out on different paths at their college and a total break occurs after junior year. The incident, involving lies, alcohol, and some bad judgment, changes Rebecca's relationship with her parents as well. Stifled by early '60s sexism, she grows passive, marrying Paul, a genial, patrician New York lawyer. Despite achieving her mother's goals, her marriage is a sham and her small life revolves around her two sons and the letters she writes to Alex but never sends. Home for her mother's funeral, Rebecca reconnects with her one-time best friend, but she begins to see the insignificance of her life. Here the narrative accelerates as it builds toward the chaotic dénouement. The story's hopeful end is tempered with the realization that, had the central characters been born a generation later, maybe their lives would have been better. Agent: Claudia Ballard, WME Entertainment. (Feb.)
author of The Story of a Marriage and The Confessi Andrew Sean Greer

In Aria Beth Sloss's marvelous debut novel, the passage of time brings love and pain and friendship, then reverses them all--a brilliant chronicle of women's lives in America.
Library Journal
Introverted, bookish Rebecca and flamboyant, dynamic Alexandra meet at age 14 and instantly become best friends. We follow them from high school through college and into marriage and motherhood, with social change from the late 1950s through the early 1970s as backdrop. Told from Rebecca's point of view, their volatile friendship is the almost exclusive focus of the narrative, as the two young women find their career ambitions constricted by social norms and expectations and settle for unsatisfying or unhappy marriages. The narrative structure is at times frustrating, as Rebecca reveals information very selectively. In the end, however, one discovers that this is by design, and earlier puzzles (including the true meaning of the novel's title) are made clear by the revelations of the book's final pages. More troubling is the character of Alexandra, who is so insufferably self-centered and overbearing that it's difficult to buy into Rebecca's attachment to her. VERDICT If Rebecca's relationship with the difficult Alexandra can be accepted, book clubs may find much to discuss regarding women's friendships, social class, and changes in women's options as a result of the feminist movement. [See Prepub Alert, 8/9/12].—Christine DeZelar-Tiedman, Univ. of Minnesota Libs., Minneapolis

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Autobiography of Us

A Novel

By Aria Beth Sloss

Henry Holt and Company

Copyright © 2013 Aria Beth Sloss
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8050-9535-7


SHE died before her time. Isn't that what people say? Her name was Alex—Alexandra, though only our mothers and teachers ever called her that. Alexandra was the wrong name entirely for a girl like her, a name for the kind of girl who crossed her t's and dotted her i's, who said God bless when you sneezed. From the day she arrived at Windridge, we were the best of friends. You know how girls are at that age. We found each other like two animals recognizing a similar species: noses raised, sniffing, alert.

Funny, isn't it? To think I was once young enough to have a friend like that. There were years she meant more to me than anyone, years our lives braided into each other's so neatly I'm not sure, to be honest, they ever came undone. Though how does one even track such things? Like the movements of the moon across the sky, she exerted a strange and mysterious pull. Even now, I could no more chart her influence than I could the gravitational powers that rule the tides. I suppose that could be said of anyone we love, that their effects on our lives run so deeply, with such grave force, we hardly know what they mean until they are gone.

* * *

I was fourteen the day she appeared in my homeroom. A transplant from Texas, our teacher announced, her hand on Alex's shoulder as though she needed protecting, though it was clear from the start Alex didn't need anything of the sort. She must have come straight to our classroom from home that day, because she wasn't in uniform yet. Instead of the pleated navy skirts and regulation white blouses we had all worn since the third grade, she had on a red flowered dress with smocking across the front, ruffled at the neck in a way my mother never would have allowed. I remember being struck right away by how pretty she was—unfairly pretty, I thought. In those days I was a great believer in the injustice of beauty, and I saw immediately that Alex had been given everything I had not. She was thin through the arms and slender rather than skinny, with a pale, inquisitive face that might have seemed severe if it hadn't been for the frank snubness of her nose and the freckles that stood out against her cheeks. Her dark hair she wore loose around her shoulders, her eyes startling even at a distance, the color a deep, sea-colored green, the right slightly larger than the left. Released to her desk, she chose the route that took her directly past mine—accident, I thought, until she turned her head a quarter inch and winked.

I was as blind as anyone as to why she picked me. I had by that age already established myself as a shy girl, bookish, and in the habit of taking everything too seriously. Of the fifteen girls in our homeroom that year, Ruthie Filbright was the prettiest, Betsy Bromwell the nicest, and Lindsey Patterson the biggest flirt. But it was me Alex winked at that September morning, me she approached at tennis that same afternoon. Me she rolled those eyes at when Lindsey flounced past, twirling her racket; me she flung herself down next to on the bench, kicking her legs out in front of her, her shins scabbed in a way I was aware I should have found ugly but did not. What I saw was that her shoes were covered with some sort of embroidered silk, that her fingernails were painted a shocking pink—the shade, I would later learn, Cyclamen. That she was, depressingly, even prettier than I had thought.

"Boo," she said, frowning at a splotch of ink on her wrist. She rubbed it with her thumb, then brought her wrist to her mouth and licked it.

"Boo yourself." I felt my cheeks heat right away.

But she was busy looking around, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and boredom. "Don't tell me," she said. It was a thrilling voice, surprisingly deep for a girl her size. "They're every bit as bad as they look."

"They're nice enough."

She crossed her arms over her thin chest. "And you? Are you nice?"

"That depends," I said slowly. "There are different kinds of nice."

She smiled. Her mouth was the one real oddity in her face: It was too large, too wide, the upper lip full in a way that erased the usual dip in the middle. Still, it was a surprisingly sweet smile. "So you are different."

I didn't need to look up to know everyone was watching—Ruthie and Lindsey and neat-faced Robin Pringle. I could feel their eyes, those girls standing clustered close to the fence, pretending to bounce tennis balls or check the strings on their rackets while they watched the new girl drag the toes of her ivory shoes carelessly back and forth in the dust. And they were watching me, Rebecca Madden, who until this very moment had been just another quiet girl in the corner, easily passed over and as easily forgotten. "I don't know," I said finally. "I guess I'm more or less like everyone else."

She brought her head down close to mine then, so close I could smell the sharp floral scent of what she would later inform me was her mother's perfume—filched, she would say, from her dressing table and applied liberally to her own wrists. "Now, if that were true," she said softly, "what in the world would I be doing over here?"

* * *

She lived, we discovered after school that day, just three blocks down on El Molino, in a beautiful old Tudor surrounded by bougainvillea and a high wall that ran around the perimeter of the property.

"Hideous, all of it," she announced as we walked. "You'll see. Eleanor's had the place done Oriental—oh, I don't care for honorifics. It's Eleanor and Beau around here, and they'll expect you to call them the same. Anyway, the whole thing's silk and tasseled pillows and these awful little Chinaman figurines, which she insists positively ooze the West Coast esthétique. Meanwhile, I only know everything about California there is to know. It might have behooved her to ask my opinion." She gave me a sidelong glance. "Aren't you going to ask how I know everything about California?"

I straightened up. "How do you know—"

"I'm going to be an actress. Isn't it obvious? I know what you're thinking," she added quickly. "But I'm not talking about the pictures. I mean the serious stuff, the Clytemnestras, the Heddas. Shaw, Brecht, et cetera. None of this fluff. It used to be about talent, you know. Look at Marlene Dietrich, for Christ's sake. No—wait." She shut her eyes. "Don't tell me. You don't have a clue." She blinked at me. "Poor thing. Never mind—I'll have you out of the Dark Ages in a jiffy. As for la Marlene," she went on, "there's no doing her justice with words. You've got to see her to understand. She came through Houston on a tour last fall—this awful cabaret thingy, really juvenile stuff, but, I swear, I would have sat in the audience and watched her slice bread. I mean, I could have sat there in my goddamn seat forever." She put her hand on my arm. "Have you ever had one of those moments?"

"Which kind?"

She looked at me intently. "The kind where you feel like everyone could go to hell. Like you wouldn't care if the whole world blew to pieces."

I pretended to think. "I'm not sure."

"Then you haven't found it."

"Found what?"

"Your something," she said, impatient. "Your heart's desire."

"You're saying yours is acting."

"Listen, I'm not exactly thrilled about it either. I would have preferred something with a little more"—she clicked her tongue—"gravitas. That's the thing about callings—they choose you."

"But how do you know?"

"That's like asking how anyone knows to breathe." She'd stopped walking now, her hand still on my arm. We were standing under the shade of one of the big palm trees that lined that stretch of El Molino, and in the late-afternoon stillness I heard the drone of a honeybee circling overhead. "Look, I wasn't given this voice for no reason. I'm not saying it to brag. I'd a thousand times rather have been given just about anything—a photographic memory or the ability to speak a dozen languages. Something useful. But I'm stuck with what I've got. Not to mention what I haven't. Schoolwork, for starters," she went on. "Oh, some of it I do alright with. Reading, for one. I happen to be a voracious reader. You?"

"I like to read," I began. "I—"

"I'm perfectly tragic when it comes to arithmetic," she went on. "And teachers are always telling me I've got to improve my penmanship. Frankly, I have neither the time nor the inclination." She looked at me. "I bet you're the type whose papers get held up in front of the class. I bet your goddamn penmanship gets top marks."

I shrugged. "I do alright."

"Because you're a realist. Don't look like that—it's a compliment. Anybody with the slightest smidge of intelligence is a realist. The point is that you get the appalling fact of the matter—that we're alone. Doomed to lives of quiet desperation or whatever. Thoreau." She squinted at me. "You do know Thoreau."

"Of course I do." I pleated the material of my skirt between my thumb and index finger, feigning concentration to cover the flush I felt moving up my neck. I am, as you know, a terrible liar.

"Listen to me." She gave me a dazzling smile. "If we're going to be friends, you'll have to learn to ignore me when I get like this. I go on tears, that's all. There are things better kept to myself, Eleanor says. Problem is, I'm an only—child, I mean. Afraid I don't always remember to think before I speak. Sometimes things come out without"—she chewed on her bottom lip—"arbitration."

"I'm an only, too."

"Were there others?"

"Other what?"

She gave me a penetrating look. "Eleanor had three before me. Or two before and one after, I can never keep it straight. You know—dead ones. Was it the same with yours?"

"I don't think so." I felt myself frowning and tried to relax my forehead—Mother telling me I looked pretty when I smiled, that frowning never did anyone's face any good. "My mother traveled before she had me. Turning pages for a famous pianist."

"You're kidding." She stared. "And now what?"

"And now what, what?"

We started walking again. "What happened to her and the pianist?"

"She got married, silly," I said, laughing. I'd always found the story romantic, though I had a feeling if I admitted that, Alex would only shake her head or roll those startling eyes. "She and my father met in a restaurant. She was out with Henry Girard—the pianist—after a concert one night. Daddy had just come back from the war." I tried to make it sound as though I could hardly remember, though of course I'd memorized every detail: my mother at a table with the famous pianist, her blonde head gleaming under the chandelier; my father in the corner with his wounded leg stretched out in front of him; across from him, his date, a woman whose face—no matter how many times I tried to picture it—remained blank. My mother young and beautiful in a green dress; Henry Girard aging, brilliant, bending his gray head over his soup. My father waiting until his date excused herself to the ladies' room to stand and walk over to where my mother sat—a face like that, he said, impossible to ignore. "They got married not long after."

"Sounds exciting."

"It was," I said, glancing at her, but she only looked thoughtful. "She always says he swept her off her feet. She says he—"

"I meant the working with the famous pianist bit."

I shrugged. "She doesn't talk about it much."

"Like the dead babies."

"Not exactly like that."

"I think I would have liked one," she went on, ignoring me. "A sister, anyway. I'm fine without the brother. I never would have known, obviously, except my parents get in these god-awful fights. Beau was saying something about family once, taking responsibility, and Eleanor just shrieked at him, If you blame the dead ones on me one more time, I swear—" She stopped. "The dead ones. Ghoulish, isn't it?"

"Maybe a little."

"I'm headed toward something sanguine, in case you were wondering." She looked at me pointedly. "From the Latin sanguineus, meaning bloody. Hopeful. Optimistic. Point being, I believe we're capable of righting certain wrongs. We might be all alone in the world, en effet, but that doesn't mean we have to be lonely." She stopped me again, and now we were at the edge of the small park across from her house, the canal that cut across the middle sluggish and choked with cattails, the far bank studded with juniper. "So? What do you say?"

"To what?"

She put out her hand, palm flat. "Blood sisters." She wiggled her fingers. "I saw you fiddling with a pin in your hem earlier. Hand it over."

"I don't know," I began, startled. It must be clear by now: I had never met anyone like her.

"Sure you do." She gave me another one of her smiles. "Come on, Becky. In or out."

I hated being called that, but I didn't dare tell her. She was looking at me closely, her eyes darkened to something like charcoal; after a moment's hesitation I reached down and undid the latch on the pin, dropping it in her hand.

"Good girl! Now." She closed her eyes. "Do you solemnly swear?"

She pricked her own finger, then mine. At first I was too busy watching the drops of blood form on our fingertips and worrying about staining my blouse to hear much of what she said: I remember that she kept her eyes closed as we pressed our index fingers together, her voice solemn as she recited our vows. At a certain point I shut my eyes too, more to shut out the glare of the sun than anything. But as I stood there in the afternoon heat with the sharp scent of juniper filling my nose, I realized with a start that I was happy. That the world might fall to pieces and I wouldn't care, not the littlest bit.


I should have told you all of this a long time ago. The truth is that we weren't like everyone else in Pasadena, your grandparents and I: house-poor, they'd call us now. My father was the first in his family to graduate anything beyond high school, putting himself through college before the war working odd jobs as a soda jerk and a shoeshine boy, the government paying for law school when he came home early from the war with a bullet in his leg. It couldn't have been easy, building his way up from nothing, though if you asked he'd say it suited him just fine, thanks. He was a great fan of Lincoln and Adams, your grandfather, fond of quoting them and others on the subject of freedom and the dignity of man. Lay first the foundation of humility, he often said—Saint Augustine, I later discovered, though at the time I'm sure I attributed it to him.

My mother held a far more complicated position toward her past. The Pooles were old Virginia stock, a family I knew mostly through the Christmas cards they sent every December like clockwork, their signatures scrawled across the bottom revealing little despite my scrutiny. "Daddy was a wonderful man," Mother liked to say, pausing for effect, "but he didn't have a head for business." Her father had killed himself after losing everything in the Crash, leaving my grandmother to raise Mother and her two younger sisters on little more than sheer determination and the sales—piecemeal—of what had once been an impressively comfortable life: A hundred acres parceled off bit by bit; the rambling old Georgian my grandmother hung on to till the bitter end; a grandfather clock with a cuckoo that sang on the hour; a pair of horses, Duke and Ranger, whom my mother had spoiled with sugar cubes and apples; a baby grand piano my grandfather had played from time to time and whose departure my mother had mourned bitterly, the sight of it being rolled through the front door too awful, she said, for words; box after box of heirloom jewelry; sets of family silver—all of it sold off by the time Mother was in her late teens. When she left for California at the age of eighteen, there was nothing to take with her save the twenty dollars my grandmother slipped into her pocket on her way out the door. "I escaped," Mother declared. Or: "I got out." She always did have a flair for the dramatic. A flourish she put on everyday life, like the silk flowers she copied from the ones at Neiman's, sewing them herself and tucking one into her chignon before she swooped out to a meeting of the Pasadena Historical Society or an afternoon tea at the club.

She was quite beautiful, your grandmother. I must have shown you pictures.


Excerpted from Autobiography of Us by Aria Beth Sloss. Copyright © 2013 Aria Beth Sloss. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Aria Beth Sloss is a graduate of Yale University and the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She is a recipient of fellowships from the Iowa Arts Foundation, the Yaddo Corporation, and the Vermont Studio Center, and her writing has appeared in Glimmer Train, the Harvard Review, and online at The Paris Review and FiveChapters. She lives in New York City.

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Autobiography of Us 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 14 reviews.
Transplanted_Southerner More than 1 year ago
This novel was marketed as a story about friends. I picked it up because the bathing suits, hair styles and sunglasses on the cover reminded me of &ldquo;Mad Men.&rdquo; So if you&rsquo;re not a &ldquo;Mad Men&rdquo; or &ldquo;The Help&rdquo; fanatic who can&rsquo;t get enough of how men and women operated in the 50&rsquo;s and 60&rsquo;s, you may find my review unhelpful. But if you are, I think the book has more strengths than weaknesses. The story picks up in the latter half of the 50&rsquo;s, when two pre-teen girls become friends. One is flamboyant and aspires to become an actress/singer/entertainer type. Her more reserved sidekick gets interested in the sciences and leans toward medicine. Both ambitions derail, due largely but not entirely to the gender related stereotypes that Society pressured women of past generations to re-enforce. I think the book does a more than adequate job of chronicling their derailment. I give a less than perfect rating for two reasons: 1. I found the narrative jerky in a few places. There were some examples&mdash;not many&mdash;where seemingly out-of-context things happened and I had to re-read to make sure I hadn&rsquo;t missed something. 2. Character motivations were sometimes unclear. In one particular instance, the aspiring doctor/scientist with the un-talkative personality starts to ask direct questions when a male professor refuses to recommend her for medical school. As readers we get no insight on how this wallflower suddenly becomes assertive, and afterward, we get very little on why she never asserts herself again. For &ldquo;Mad Men&rdquo; fans, however, I still recommend it. The thirteen episode seasons are just too short.
7LakesReader More than 1 year ago
This book was not what expected. I could not identify with the characters at all. The characters seemed mean spirited. It was most definately not a feel good book.
AHHP More than 1 year ago
Loved this book.  Read it in one sitting
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
FurmanAK More than 1 year ago
Rationally I understand that childhood friendships often spring up spontaneously: an unlikely alliance, a shared neighborhood - but I think at fourteen, when Alex and Rebecca meet, there should be something more concrete expressed, especially since they are complete polar opposites. I was craving some sort of episode in the beginning of the novel - before we fast-forward 4-5 years and start seeing the cracks - that would really cement this friendship as plausible, aside from Alex randomly picking Rebecca the second she enters the classroom as a new student. Some perilous episode, perhaps, as perilous as high school dramas could be, where we see Alex's humanity and what attracts her and Rebecca to each other aside from the glamorous diva/sounding board dynamic. The novel does come to life later on, and I was interested in what happens to Rebecca, how she relates to the &quot;history happening around her&quot;, how her opinions change. I thought one of the most interesting and vividly portrayed characters was her mother. But I could never quite feel the weight of the friendship between Rebecca and Alex, which was supposed to have influenced Rebecca's life so profoundly. To repeat myself, I guess, I wanted to have see Alex really sticking up for Rebecca in the beginning and at some moments throughout, so that their estrangement would feel more painful and visceral. It is was: I missed nothing about their friendship because I'd really seen nothing of it. When they reunited, it also felt jarring. In addition, motivations of both of the main characters were hard to see - they seemed to have given up on their dreams way too easily. The supporting cast was pretty flat. Rebecca's voice, however, is engaging, and the descriptions of the era and well-written and interesting. Ultimately, I think this book fell way short of its premise and potential.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Not recommended.  The author gets the period all wrong, and the plot depends on the time in which the characters grow up and live. The protagonist goes to college in 1962 and hides her intellectual abilities and her career aspirations.  No college woman did that in  post-Pill in 1961.  However, the intelligent and educated characters in this book appear to be completely unaware of this world-changing chemical!  That's only the beginning of what's wrong with this story of simpering &quot;victims.&quot; 
FeatheredQuillBookReviews More than 1 year ago
Autobiography of Us is a bittersweet tale of two women facing the world in a time when life was much simpler yet oh so challenging. Aria Beth Sloss&rsquo; debut novel introduces beautiful and effervescent Alexandria Carrington to subdued Rebecca Madden. The place is 1960s Pasadena, California. Windridge College for Women is on their horizon; their beacon to make a difference once it is behind them and they are out in the world. Windridge wasn&rsquo;t a platform for girls to aspire and achieve greatness. Rather it was a place that educated the next generation of young women of their necessary roles in life. It would equip them with a tool bag filled with proper elocution while instilling them with confidence toward the essence of precision sewing. Upon graduation, each woman would have the mental &ldquo;how to&rdquo; guide filled with the quintessentially perfect housewife and eventual motherhood information. What if Alex had aspirations toward becoming the next Hollywood icon and Rebecca, a brilliant doctor? In their junior year and on one particular night, an incident occurs. Thanks to Bertrand Lowell, Alex and Rebecca&rsquo;s hopes and dreams are quashed. In the aftermath, a tangible wedge is driven between the two girls and the friendship they once had; a wedge that changes the courses of their lives forever.Aria Beth Sloss developed a familiar plot: two girls coming of age with all the hopes and dreams of achieving the lives they believed they were destined to have. What makes her novel stand out is she took the premise of changing times and a world that continues to unfold around us and anchors it with unique characters. She infuses emotion with her gifted style by raising awareness toward the importance of best friends forever and how easily it can crumble. Ms. Sloss creates a melancholy believability through her artfully placed words via situations and happenings tangibly real. She has a notable patience in playing out the plot; focusing on minor victories at the same time exposing the harsh disappointments because of those victories. I interpret her dedication: &ldquo;For Dan, who told me so&rdquo; as her way of delivering not only a haunting message of affirmation, but a personal realization that Autobiography of Us is a story she was destined to write for the audience waiting to read it. Her writing provides the perfect balance of escape and comfort with credibility throughout. In my opinion, she has achieved what many authors aspire to achieve; the accomplishment of telling a story that was meant to be told. No doubt, her driving inspiration was a clear vision of her intended audience. I say well done Ms. Sloss because I believe you achieved just that. Hopefully, this is only the beginning of your writing journey. Quill Says: Autobiography of Us is a heartfelt rendition as much about the importance of friendship as it is about its harsh realities and vulnerabilities.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Here at later date
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ryla where are you? please reply.