The premise of this book is ridiculous -- since when is Raleigh, North Carolina, the "heart of Dixie"? But even more ridiculous: the notion of a memoir in which the author "made stuff up." Why did she have to do that? Because the truth wasn't interesting enough? In truth, even this exaggerated memoir isn't interesting enough, in large part because Kyle Spencer is too young to be writing a memoir and because she takes herself way too seriously and thinks way too highly of herself. Her delusions of grandeur are embarrassing to read. ("I pictured myself leaping onto some carpeted auditorium stage, preparing to accept the third consecutive Pulitzer of my young career.") And her writing is just plain bad. ("I thanked Susan B. Anthony for getting the women's lib ball rolling.") Her attempts at self-depracation ring false. Get over yourself, Kyle!