Sue Murtaugh’s We’re Not Rich is like inverted social media

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π‘©π’π’π’Œ π’“π’†π’—π’Šπ’†π’˜ 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒅 π’ƒπ’š π‘Ύπ’“π’Šπ’•π’† π‘΅π’π’˜! π’˜π’Šπ’•π’‰ 𝑱𝒐𝒏 π‘»π’‚π’•π’•π’“π’Šπ’†, π’šπ’π’–π’“ 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒐 π’‘π’–π’ƒπ’π’Šπ’„π’‚π’•π’Šπ’π’ π’Šπ’ π‘¨π’•π’π’‚π’π’•π’Šπ’„ π‘ͺ𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒂

I read We’re Not Rich with a flush rising up my neck. Was author Sue Murtagh WATCHING me? How else would she know I was thinking THAT??

Each story scrapes a layer off the BS of life and reveals the truth beneath. It sounds a bit like listening in on an old party line, catching crackles of gossip and gasps of silence.

A deck rises on the back of house like a dreamcatcher designed to turn work and money into visible success and happiness. Next time we see it, it’s offering clunky curb appeal as part of a real estate transaction.

Dave has a big idea for a communal snowblower that had me cringing, and very glad I’d not let that particular plan escape my own mouth.

Houses are filled and emptied of owners and lives.

The frigging mice never leave.

I loved every story in this book and wanted to circle back around to read them again with new perspectives. Maybe this can be like The Office on TV, where I just watch it over and over and over?

It reminded me of a darker CBC’s Vinyl Cafe, at times, only seen through female eyes.

That female gaze penetrates everything from swimming lessons to charity golf events to a wildfire burning down a marriage. Each story is pinned to the wall like a butterfly.

We’re Not Rich takes the fleetingness of social media and turns it into a permanent work of art.

It’s like Murtagh got access to our posts – and reversed our cameras to see what we truly look like beyond the social frame.