The project where I read a book a week this year. See more about my project here (and feel free to leave your book suggestions). You can read my other 52 in ’11 posts here.

Book 11: Stories I Only Tell My Friends by Rob Lowe
My rating: Must-read

Believe me, I never expected to mark a celebrity autobiography as a must-read. Let alone Rob Lowe’s.

But from Page 1, Lowe grabs you in. More than other celebrity memoirs (including Tina Fey’s), you can tell Lowe is  telling you the truth, that he’s being honest and real.

More than all this, the man can write. Rob Lowe can write the way I wish I could write. (Another thing I never thought that I’d say, “Gee, I wish I could write like Rob Lowe.”)

Lowe takes us through his childhood pre-fame, his parents’ divorce, his mother’s second marriage and divorce and his move, as a teen, to California. He walks us through trying to make it as a teen actor and then, making it as a teen. He talks about fame, his famous friends and his famous blunders.

There’s a lot of name-dropping in this book, but none of it seems overt or out of place. Who knew Lowe was childhood buddies with Emilio Estevez and Charlie Sheen? That Martin Sheen was like a father to him? That he went to school with Dean Cain?

And while me listing them off makes it all seem crude, Lowe never does. My favourite part about his famous friends stories is that he never starts with who he’s talking about. He describes them, leaving you to guess who he’s talking about. And then in the last sentence, Lowe gives the kicker.

Here’s how he opens the book. See if you can guess who he’s talking about:

I had always had an affinity for him, an admiration for his easy grace, his natural charisma, despite the fact that for the better part of a decade my then girlfriend kept a picture of him running shirtless through Central Park on her refrigerator door. Maybe my lack of jealousy toward this particular pinup was tamped down by empathy for his loss of his father and an appreciation for how complicated it is to be the subject of curiosity and objectification from a very young age. That said, when my girlfriend and others would constantly swoon over him, when I would see him continually splashed across the newspapers, resplendent like an American prince, I wasn’t above the occasional male thought of: Screw that guy.

As enjoyable as the book is, Lowe doesn’t go into detail about his infamous sex tape, or the girl involved in it. He glosses over that scandal quite quickly, but I guess that’s your prerogative when you’re writing your autobiography. You can talk about what you want and avoid what you want. He does talk about his Oscar disaster, saying he knew it was a mistake when he did it.

He talks raw about his addiction problems with alcohol, where they likely came from and what triggered them. He talks about addiction in a really honest way that will hopefully encourage people to get some help.

Stories I Only Tell My Friends put a smile on my face, and kept me turning the pages eager for more.

Here’s hoping Lowe still has some more stories he only tells his friends, because I can’t wait to hear them!