There was once a cultural moment — though not one that is easy to remember — when only a select few writers got the privilege of publishing a memoir with a big house. Those writers had to either a) be famous, b) have such a compelling story that it screamed to be told, or c) be a fantastic enough stylist to gloss over the lulls and ebbs of a sometimes banal life.
These days, memoirs are being snatched up by the dozens for publication, and many of their authors have none of these qualifications. Sure, celebrities are still confessing their sins on the page (see the current best-seller lists) and the genre has produced blockbusters (some later found to be based on lies), but for the most part memoir has become a literary punch line.
