Melody Murray's Books

I thought maybe this would be different from the other memoirs of "loose girls" but no, this is another exercise in self-hate, in acting out, in endless navel-gazing and ultimately "redemption" through cliché, I mean marriage. Where is the memoir I want to read? The one about the fiercely independent girl for whom the sexual revolution opened doors? The one about the young woman who gloried in her body and in her lovers' bodies? The one where nobody hated themselves, nobody felt like nothing without a man? I can't believe I'm the only one with warm and wistful memories of the free love years, the only one who isn't broken.