I’m mentioned before my New York Writers stigma, something about their self-affliction that really turns me off.  I definitively put The Year of Magical Thinking into that genre.  The book was well written (otherwise, I would not have finished).  But at the end, I was neither happy or sad, just glad to be done. It was an incredibly sad story, losing your husband, almost losing you daughter, and likely to have lost your mind.  And ultimately, she perseveres… I should have been left with something more than “so what”.