Book Review of The Me I Used to Be by Kristan Higgans: What Writers Can Learn about Voice, Friendship, and Emotional Stakes
Hey, writers!
I can't believe that by this time next week, it's be OCTOBER. Where has this year gone? I am pretty sure that for me, the year has been swallowed by all of the revision work I've been doing on novel number one.
Hard to think that I really believed I'd be done with it by June.
Maybe that's why I've been burying myself in books so much lately. To escape the reality (and hard work) of revision.
Whenever I read, I'm always reading with two minds
One is simply along for the ride. I'm reading like a reader. Do I care about these characters? Do I want to know why a choice gets made? Am I eager to turn the page?
The other mind is poking around under the hood, reading like a writer, trying to figure out how the reader made all that happen.
Kristan Higgins's The Me I Used to Be gave both "minds" in my brain plenty to work with.
The novel follows four women who were inseparable as teenagers until a terrible accident shattered their friendship. Twenty-five years later, Audrey brings the "Core Four" back together for their high school reunion... and reveals that she has early-onset dementia.
From there, the story becomes about far more than a reunion. It's about friendship, regret, identity, motherhood, the lives we thought we'd lead, and what remains of us when so much else changes.
There was a lot here that worked for me as a writer, and a lot that gave me some food for thought. Here's my review of the book with four lessons I'm taking with me.
I hope you find this post useful! If you do, let me know in the comments or by messaging me through the site.
-CC
1) Writers can let "voice" do some of the storytelling
One of the most interesting choices in The Me I Used to Be is the way Higgins handles Audrey's perspective.
We don't simply learn that Audrey is losing words and memories. We experience some of that loss with her.
Names disappear. Familiar objects become descriptions. Connections between thoughts break down. Sometimes Audrey knows exactly how she feels about someone even when she can no longer remember who that person is.
As the novel progresses, her narration changes along with her.
In other words, the prose itself becomes part of her characterization. Higgins doesn't need to continually remind us that Audrey's disease is progressing; the way Audrey perceives and describes the world increasingly tells us.
Mathilda, Audrey's teenage stepdaughter, offers another great example of voice. Her chapters sound completely different: full of slang, attitude, defensiveness, humor, and the occasional flash of vulnerability she'd rather not admit is there.
Opportunities for writers:
Distinct voice isn't just about giving one character a catchphrase or another character longer sentences.
Voice can reveal how someone actually experiences the world.
What does this character notice? What do they avoid? What language is available to them? What assumptions do they make? What would they never admit directly but reveal accidentally through the way they tell the story?
And when something changes inside the character, does the voice change with them?
My takeaway:
I'm thinking more deeply about the difference between writing about a character's experience and allowing the prose to actually embody it.
That's a much harder thing to pull off... but when it works, the reader doesn't simply understand what a character is going through; we feel a little of it with them.
2) Humor and grief can live side by side
This is a sad book.
There's really no way around that. Dementia hangs over the entire story, and nearly every major character is carrying some form of grief, regret, or disappointment.
And yet The Me I Used to Be is also very funny.
The women tease each other. Audrey jokes about her condition. Beck has a wonderfully dry sense of humor. Mathilda can be brutal in the way only a sixteen-year-old can. Even some of the most painful conversations contain ridiculous observations or moments when everyone starts laughing.
I appreciated that the humor doesn't erase what's happening. In some ways, it makes the sadness hit harder because these characters aren't walking embodiments of grief.
They're people. They can laugh at breakfast and cry an hour later. They can make jokes because they're scared. They can find something absurd in an awful situation.
Opportunities for writers:
When we're writing heavy material, it can be tempting to make every scene carry the same emotional weight. But a novel that's relentlessly sad can actually make readers feel less over time.
I think contrast matters.
Humor, affection, irritation, awkwardness, pleasure, boredom... all those ordinary human emotions give the darker moments something to push against.
That doesn't mean dropping jokes into scenes that can't support them. But I think means remembering that characters don't stop acting human just because something terrible is happening.
My takeaway:
This book reminded me not to protect serious stories from humor.
Sometimes laughter is exactly what allows readers to stay close to painful material.
And sometimes the funny moment is what makes the heartbreaking one hurt.
3) Give different characters versions of the same thematic problem
Audrey may be the character most obviously confronting "the me I used to be," but she isn't the only one. That's one of the things I liked most about the novel.
As teenagers, the Core Four were practically assigned identities: the lucky one, the beautiful one, the smart one, the sporty one. Twenty-five years later, every one of those identities has been complicated:
Micah dreamed of leaving Vermont and seeing the world but never left her hometown. Jasmine escaped poverty and built the affluent life she'd once longed for, only to discover that it hasn't made her particularly happy. Beck lost the basketball future that once seemed inseparable from who she was. And Audrey is quite literally losing access to parts of herself.
The details differ, but the underlying question is shared: Who am I now compared with the person I thought I would become?
Opportunities for writers:
I'm seeing how theme can become much more powerful when it doesn't belong only to the protagonist.
Try giving several major characters different versions of the same underlying question.
One character might resist it. Another might embody its opposite. Another might make the mistake the protagonist fears making.
My takeaway:
This one gave me a lot to think about in my own fiction. Rather than asking only, "What is my protagonist struggling with?" I want to ask, "How might the other characters struggle with variations of the same thing?"
I'm hoping this can make the story feel more cohesive .
4) More story isn't always more effective
There's a lot happening in The Me I Used to Be
And I mean a lot.
The four women aren't simply dealing with the reunion and its emotional fallout. They arrive with complicated marriages, secrets, careers, children, old romances, family conflicts, professional problems, and unresolved trauma.
On one hand, I liked that fullness. These women have lived twenty-five years since high school, and their lives should be complicated.
At the same time, there were moments when I felt some of the secondary plots were competing with the story I cared about most: Audrey, the Core Four, and what this reunion means while they still have time together.
A few storylines were so substantial they could almost have supported novels of their own.
Opportunities for writers:
Subplots can give a novel depth, broaden the world, and prevent secondary characters from existing only to serve the protagonist. But every subplot also asks the reader to shift attention.
As I'm thinking about it, the question to ask isn't necessarily, "Is this subplot interesting?"
It might be, "Is this the story I most want readers thinking about right now?"
An entertaining subplot can still dilute a stronger one if both are asking for the same amount of narrative space.
My takeaway:
This was a useful reminder for me because I tend to like complexity. More layers! More secrets! More complications!
But sometimes revision isn't about finding another interesting thing to add. Sometimes it's about recognizing which story has the most emotional power and giving that story more room.
Final Book Review Thought: Funny, Moving, and Full of Heart
Ultimately, The Me I Used to Be worked for me because its emotional center is so strong. The novel asks painful questions about memory, regret, friendship, family, and whether the person we once were ever really disappears.
But what stayed with me most was the friendship at its center. And the idea that identity isn't simply something we carry alone. Sometimes other people hold pieces of us, too.
Kristan Higgins reminded me how powerfully voice can immerse readers in a character's experience, how humor can make grief feel more human, how one thematic question can echo differently across an entire cast, and how important it is to recognize which story deserves the most space.
Who is this book for?
The Me I Used to Be is a moving choice for readers who enjoy character-driven fiction about complicated female friendships, families, second chances, and the lives we build after the future we imagined changes.
And for writers, it's a reminder that sometimes the most powerful question we can ask isn't simply, "What happens to this character?" It's: "Who are they becoming—and what parts of the person they used to be are still there?"
If you're interested, you can enter to win a copy of The Me I Used to Be through October 4 at https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com.
Thanks for reading!
Peace & plenty,
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