I've said this before I think of Brother, I'm Dying as not a me-moir, but a nou-moir, a we-moir; it's not just my story but all these stories intertwined.

She became the poster girl for all the evils of the book genre my friend Jane calls "me-moirs" (as in, Dad was a drunk; Mom was a drunk; Dad was my lover; Dad was my mom). Maynard's peers jumped all over her for being everything writers suspect we are and want desperately not to be—self-centered, exploitative, mercenary.

Among the suggestions from Dymocks bookshops for Dad today is Bob Hawke's modesty-free me-moirs, described as the little bloke's own account of his life and career "as Australia's longest-serving prime minister". A claim at the buttock-end of credibility, we would have thought.