After recently listening to a couple of podcasts this past summer featuring Mary Ruefle I decided to give her poetry a try. For the record I confess to initially being more interested in her collected lectures [b:Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures|13237099|Madness, Rack, and Honey Collected Lectures|Mary Ruefle|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/books/1348707245s/13237099.jpg|18434923]. But in my predictively addictive newfound curiosity in an attractive writer near my own age, whose clear and comforting voice sounded like [a:Patti Smith|196092|Patti Smith|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/authors/1443733105p2/196092.jpg] to me, and who seemed to have a grasp on what I feel most important in the writing I read, I instead decided to try these little prose pieces collected in The Most of It
as I waited for a more affordable copy of her revered lectures to come my way. But what began as an exciting delight in reading her short prose slowly turned into boredom, and then, almost abruptly, her lines took a left turn and morphed into indifference. I felt completely hornswoggled. And I should have known better than to have purchased this book anyway when the publishing promo proudly stated: Fans of Lydia Davis and Miranda July will delight in this short prose from a beloved and cutting-edge poet
. The book proved to be severely lacking in everything but burdensome disappointment. Mary Ruefle teaches writing. She has the credentials to prove it. And she should demand much better of herself. I was woefully surprised.