Sara Hildreth delivers a rare, unvarnished critique of celebrity memoirs and literary giants alike, arguing that authentic voice often matters more than polished prose or thematic perfection. In an era where book reviews frequently function as promotional extensions, her willingness to praise Adam Rippon's grit while dismissing his writing quality offers a refreshing corrective for the discerning listener.
The Paradox of Authenticity in Sports Memoirs
Hildreth approaches Adam Rippon’s Beautiful on the Outside not as a fan seeking validation, but as an observer analyzing the mechanics of narrative. She notes that while she has been a devoted listener to his podcast, The Runthrough, the transition to print reveals significant structural flaws. "The writing in the book is not good, which is fine because that's not what I was there for," Hildreth writes, immediately disarming the reader with her honesty before pivoting to the book's emotional core.
She argues that the memoir succeeds precisely where it fails technically: by offering a raw look at the psychological fortitude required in figure skating. The text is described as "clunky and repetitive," yet Hildreth suggests these imperfections mirror the chaotic reality of the sport itself. She highlights how Rippon details his strategy for winning Olympic influence without securing an individual medal, noting that "you really can win the Olympics without bringing home a gold medal." This insight reframes success in elite sports away from the binary of gold or nothing, a perspective often lost in standard sports journalism.
However, the critique is not entirely one-sided. Hildreth points out that the narrative organization feels like it "wants to be organized into thematic essays, but can't help falling into the comfort of a chronological rehashing." This structural hesitation prevents the book from achieving true literary depth, limiting its appeal primarily to those already invested in Rippon's persona rather than general readers seeking a masterclass in memoir writing.
The early stories are some of the best because they reveal just how wild the entire world of skating is—even at the earliest levels.
Political Resonance and Literary Heavy-Handedness
Turning to Elizabeth Strout’s The Things We Never Say, Hildreth tackles a beloved author with a critical eye, questioning whether the new work sacrifices character depth for political messaging. She describes the protagonist, Artie, as a "gem of a man," yet notes that his internal world feels constrained by the author's agenda. The criticism centers on the feeling that the novel was constructed backward: "it really felt like a book that began with knowing what it wanted to say about politics and loneliness and then molding a plot around that rather than beginning with questions to explore through fully realized characters."
This observation strikes at the heart of contemporary literary fiction, where the pressure to address current political climates can sometimes overshadow character development. Hildreth admits she listened to the audiobook in two days due to Strout's engaging prose, but warns new readers against starting here. She suggests that for those unfamiliar with the author, Olive Kitteridge or Anything is Possible remain superior entry points.
A counterargument worth considering is that literature has always served as a vessel for political discourse; perhaps the "heavy-handedness" Hildreth detects is simply the urgency of the moment bleeding into the art. Yet, her distinction between exploring questions and delivering answers remains a vital metric for evaluating character-driven fiction. The book's connection to the broader cultural conversation about loneliness feels less like an organic exploration and more like a prescribed lesson.
Ambition Versus Execution in Historical Fiction
Finally, Hildreth examines Maggie O'Farrell’s Land, a sweeping narrative that spans centuries and continents. She praises the novel's "kaleidoscopic quality" and its ability to make readers feel present within the story without sacrificing momentum. The book explores the tension between the living land and the maps used to claim it, a theme Hildreth finds "just as vital now as it is for these mid-19th century characters."
Despite her admiration, she identifies a tendency toward didacticism that she found absent in O'Farrell's earlier work. She observes that the author seems intent on ensuring readers understand her aims, leading to "foreshadowing of what's to come, repetitive traumas, and direct reflection on the novel's themes from the narrator." Hildreth admits this usually turns her off a book, noting her past reservations about Demon Copperhead, but finds herself more forgiving here.
The context of historical mapping adds weight to her analysis. Just as the ISU Judging System has faced scrutiny for its opacity and potential bias in figure skating, O'Farrell's characters grapple with systems of control that define their existence through external labels. Hildreth suggests that while these narrative choices feel somewhat "pandering," they function effectively within the framework of an homage to ancient storytelling modes.
The tension between the living breathing land and the names and maps used to claim and conquer is just as vital now as it is for these mid-19th century characters.
Bottom Line
Hildreth’s commentary succeeds by separating the emotional resonance of a story from its technical execution, offering listeners a nuanced guide that values honesty over hype. While her critique of Strout risks alienating devoted fans who prefer thematic certainty, it serves as a necessary check on the tendency to conflate popularity with literary merit. The strongest takeaway is that even flawed books can offer profound insights if the reader approaches them with the right expectations.