I’ve been thinking a lot about the strange economy of confession… how some of us make our living by handing over our most private moments for public consumption. Memoirists, essayists, influencers: the line between authenticity and performance gets blurry when your pain becomes part of your business model.

I know this terrain intimately. I’ve sold books about my heartbreaks. I’ve published articles that make me wince. Every time, there’s a question humming underneath: what am I giving away, and what am I keeping for myself?

Enter Elizabeth Gilbert’s All the Way to the River. On paper, it’s the story of a married writer who falls in love with her terminally ill best friend, Raya. What follows is part love story, part grief memoir, part descent into obsession. Gilbert has always lived loudly (she’s made a very successful career out of turning personal upheaval into literary property) and this is definitely a dark reckoning with that pattern. I didn’t find her or her love interest Raya especially likable or reliable characters… but Gilbert is unflinchingly honest about how easily love can curdle into codependency and devotion can become enablement.

I listened to the audiobook a couple of weeks ago, and while I didn’t exactly enjoy it (again, I didn’t like Elizabeth or Raya as characters) I cannot stop thinking about it. I’ve recommended it to multiple friends who also inhaled the audiobook and we can’t stop talking about it.

Here’s what keeps circling in my head: Gilbert kinda fell on the sword of humility with this story. For anyone who’s wrestled with love addiction or codependence (which is MANY of us, and certainly me), she shows why it’s essential to face those patterns… even if they’re small. If you don’t address the small patterns (the chasing the high of a new love, the small over-giving “I can help!” of codependence), they can take you somewhere dark.

Like, SUPER dark. All The Way To The River gets fucking bleak, my friends.

This is less “Eat, Pray, Love” and more “Snort, Inject, Contemplate Homicide.”

The issue of memoirist ethics

As a former memoirist myself, I had a visceral reaction to the ethics of this book, and to what it says about the career of a writer who’s made her living “doing it for the plot.” Gilbert’s brand has always been about big, bold (often relational) life adventures that later become bestselling stories.

The cynic in me can’t help but think: of course she jumped into torrid love affair with her dying best friend because it’d make a great book.

That’s how she’s made her (literal) millions: She does it for the plot.

But what happens when “the plot” turns on you? When your real life refuses to follow narrative arc or redemptive closure?

That’s where All the Way to the River became something darker than I expected: It’s a cautionary tale for anyone who’s ever mined their own life for art or content. Because where’s the line between expression and exploitation? How does knowing you’re going to share the story shape the choices you make while you’re still living the story?

I’ve written about this question before, in an essay about memoirist ethics before my third book, From Sh!tshow To Afterglow, was published.

But the question doesn’t just apply to writers. It applies to influencers, artists, and any of us who share personal reflections on monetized content platforms. When your identity becomes part of your output, the boundary between living and narrating can quietly dissolve. Once that happens, it’s hard to tell who’s steering the boat… you, or the story you think you’re supposed to be living, so that you have a good story to monetize.

These questions are a big part of why I don’t make my living from the kind of personal writing I used to produce. I realized when I was marketing Sh!tshow that I was subconsciously making life choices to keep my experiences “more relatable” for social media followers and book readers.

It felt bad.

Real bad.

Once I realized I was “doing it for the plot,” I couldn’t unsee the damage it did to my psyche, and I decided to tap out. My income now comes from publishing other people’s stories, working with small businesses, and consulting. My life story is between me and my beloveds. It’s not for sale.

That’s why, despite my mixed feelings, I can’t shake this book. I didn’t like Elizabeth Gilbert as a character, and I don’t fully trust her as a narrator. But I also recognize the courage it takes to reveal yourself as unreliable, exploitive, addictive human… and to bare your own complicity in your suffering.

I’m grateful not to have her job any more, but I’m glad Elizabeth took one for the team so I could learn from her mistakes. Maybe that’s why the book lingers: it’s not flattering, but it’s real.

So am I recommending this book?

All the Way to the River: I gobbled it up, I hated it, and I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s the sign of good art, right? It’s a quick read, deeply uncomfortable, and full of ethical splinters that’ll keep working their way under your skin for weeks.

If you’ve ever used your own life as material, dealt with addiction, obsessive love, or over-giving to people you love, you’ll recognize yourself here. (Bonus if you identify as an enneagram 2! Elizabeth Gilbert does, and this book is definitely a portrait of a 2 gone wrong.)

You might not like it, but you’ll feel it… and that feeling may stay with you.