Stefan Beck of The New Criterion's blog, Armavirumque, notices the market's inundation with memoirs and tries to provide sensible categories to help us stay afloat.
He quotes Stanley Crouch from The Artifical White Man (who I further trim from Stefan's crop job which you can read in the link above) to provide this essential guidance for writers:
"In essence, Hemingway's dictum of writing about what you know has become an excuse for avoiding risks...What you know might be something you took the time and went somewhere to discover."
I'm repeatedly bored by memoirs, notably the Carrie Fisher survivor/victimology type a la: I've reformed, of course, and now view my former life with wryness and wisdom, but let me wallow in my former sins and selfishness which have somehow awarded me legacy cool points in excess of anything your circumscribed, non-Belushi-knowing life could claim. I said drugs are bad, right?
Ms. Fisher's on her THIRD memoir. Can something please happen to her that doesn't become a chapter? Can anything stop the unwavering self-indulgence?