I’ll Never Write My Memoirs

I live a fairly Grace Jones free life, but I have distinct memories of her. First, she was one of the most interesting aspects of A View To A Kill (apparently Christopher Walken was embracing his inner David Bowie). Second, La Vie en Rose. Third, my mom always said that she looked like a man. Fourth, she can sing and hoola hoop before a live audience possibly topless. So it seemed like a no brainer. If Grace Jones writes a memoir, you read it.
I almost stopped reading Grace Jones’ I’ll Never Write My Memoirs because in the opening pages, she is over two hours late for dinner at a friend’s house. We get it! You’re such an amazing artist that such pedestrian concepts as time means nothing to you. Eye roll. If she arrived at my house, there would be no more dinner, and I would already be in my pjs. I’m glad that I ignored my initial misgivings and continued to read, especially since Jones seemed to be a step ahead of every cultural, social and historical touchstone of her time.
I’ll Never Write My Memoirs becomes interesting once she delves into surviving her childhood spiritual, psychological and physical abuse, her gender bending ways, her sexuality, becoming herself, race, identity, relationships, career, discipline and drugs. Jones appears to be in control even when she appears to be out of control so that makes her more interesting than the average attention whores littering our airwaves today (What’s good, Miley). I love reading books about people who are nothing like me and live completely different lives. Even though there is no alternate universe where I’m like Jones, she offers a lot of wisdom if you pay attention. “I never like the pressure of someone making me feel inferior without helping me solve the problem (pg 129).” Clutch your pearls, but read I’ll Never Write My Memoirs.