Blog Archives
Tell Your Story
Such a Pretty Picture is a devastating and intimate memoir that tells your story of a childhood marked by trauma, silence, and survival. Why was this an important book for you to write?
Like many memoir writers, I started the book with the intention of turning my personal trauma into art, but over time my intention has evolved. I want to use this book to create awareness about the issue of childhood sexual abuse and to give hope to other survivors. I believe that by telling my story I am sending a message to other survivors–letting them know it is okay for them to tell their stories too.
What were some ideas that were important for you to share in this book?
That childhood sexual abuse can occur in any family, no matter how “pretty” things look from the outside.
That love can exist even in the wake of the most profound betrayal.
That childhood sexual abuse or any abuse can have deleterious effects long after the abuse has stopped but that with therapy and support it is possible to heal; find the north star that resides in each of us.
What was the most challenging part of writing your memoir and what was the most rewarding?
My relationship with mother was complicated one of the most challenging parts of writing the book was allowing myself to write honestly about her abuse and her complicity. That secret was almost harder to reveal than the incest.
The most rewarding has come more recently, as part of my publicity I have shared the ARC on Net Galley, Goodreads as well as with Rape Treatment Providers, the comment I hear most often is that memoir will give hope to other survivors. I can’t wait to get the first email or direct message from someone who the book helped.
What do you hope is one thing readers take away from your story?
That even in childhood marked by trauma, growth, healing, and forgiveness are possible.
Author Links: GoodReads | Website
Andrea is four and a half the first time her father, David, gives her a bath. Although she is young, she knows there is something strange about the way he is touching her. When her mother, Marlene, walks in to check on them, she howls and crumples to the floor—and when she opens her eyes, she is blind. Marlene’s hysterical blindness lasts for weeks, but her willful blindness lasts decades. The abuse continues, and Andrea spends a childhood living with a secret she can’t tell and a shame she is too afraid to name.
Despite it, she survives. She builds a life and tells herself she is fine. But at age thirty-three, an unwanted grope on a New York City subway triggers her past. Suddenly unable to remember how to forget, Andrea is forced to confront her past—and finally begin to heal.
This brave debut offers honest insight into a survivor’s journey. Readers will feel Andrea’s pain, her fear, and her shame—yet they will also feel her hope. And like Andrea, they will come to understand an important truth: though healing is complicated, it is possible to find joy and even grace in the wake of the most profound betrayals.
Such a Pretty Picture
Andrea Leeb’s Such a Pretty Picture is a devastating and intimate memoir that tells the story of a childhood marked by trauma, silence, and survival. Set in 1960s and ’70s New York, the book opens with a gut-wrenching scene: a four-year-old Andrea is molested by her father during bath time. Her mother, upon discovering the abuse, collapses and goes temporarily blind—both literally and emotionally. That moment becomes a metaphor for what follows: a house where appearances are cherished, secrets are guarded, and a child is left alone in the fallout. What unfolds is a gripping narrative of emotional abandonment, maternal betrayal, and the long shadow of incest.
Reading this memoir gutted me. Not just because of the trauma Leeb endured, but because of how plainly she lays it bare. She doesn’t use flowery language or metaphors to distance herself—she brings you into the room with her. In Chapter 1, when she says, “The way he touched me felt strange: good but not good,” I felt that sick knot of confusion and fear. What shook me even more was her mother’s reaction—not to rescue, but to disappear. That decision to prioritize denial over protection sets the tone for the emotional cruelty that follows.
Leeb’s mother, Marlene, is portrayed with brutal honesty. She’s fragile, vain, jealous, and deeply wounded, but also dangerous in her indifference. You feel Andrea’s heartbreak not in screams, but in those small silences where a child should have been loved and wasn’t. The mother’s obsession with order and appearances, like matching pink nightgowns or birthday parties, just made the contrast sharper. I found myself mourning what Andrea never had more than anything she lost.
The darkest chapter for me was Chapter 6. Andrea, still a child, tapes her mouth shut, stuffs cotton in her nose and ears, and lies in bed trying to suffocate herself. Her suicide attempt is not melodramatic; it’s quiet, methodical, almost innocent in its execution. All she wants is for her mother to love her again. And when her mother finally holds her and says, “My poor baby. What have I done to you?”—You feel hope. But deep down, you know it’s just a pause before the next wave of pain. That’s the emotional rhythm of this book: brief tenderness followed by long stretches of ache.
This book is brutal. It’s heavy. But it’s honest in a way few memoirs are. It doesn’t try to make pain pretty. It doesn’t ask for pity. Andrea Leeb writes like someone who has lived through hell and made it her mission to tell the truth. I’d recommend this memoir to survivors, to those who work with trauma, and to anyone who’s ever wondered how abuse hides behind closed doors.
Pages: 256 | ASIN : B0DWYSSLL6
LITERARY TITAN 