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By Tina Fey (Little, Brown)


Diablo Cody succinctly summed up the experience with a Sunday-evening tweet: “I read Bossypants way too fast. It should be a series, like The Baby-Sitters Club. You could get a new Bossypants at each school book fair.” Tina Fey’s slim, sharp new volume is aptly being compared to Nora Ephron (who, despite her diminishing screenwriting abilities, remains a star of the humour-memoir genre). It’s a vaguely chronological telling of Fey’s evolution from lifelong nerd---Liz Lemon minus fame---to the powerhouse she’s become. It touches briefly but not deeply upon the origins of her scar---“and why I’m not going to talk about it”---through her sexless college years, her job at the YMCA and well-known ascension at Saturday Night Live. It’s more life-mirrors-work than set diary---Amy Poehler is a favourite, but there are no tales from Baby Mama---because, like Ephron, Fey knows her audience will come back for more. Bossypants is a joyful, burn-through read, witty and worthy, like a 30 Rock marathon.

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