Ann Patchett is a terrific novelist; here she writes about herself. She tells us about all sorts of things — marriage, divorce, her friendship with a poet called Lucy Grealy, who had cancer of the jaw, and wrote a book about it, and died. Patchett’s father was a cop in the LAPD. She writes about him, and the police, with great aplomb. She rides with a pair of cops in their car; it’s a great story. You keep thinking: what a good writer! She has great range, great control, great storytelling. She also writes about writing itself. Once or twice she reminded me of Joan Didion.