In his review of Dear Nobody in the Austin Chronicle, Tim Stegall wrote :
“Despite her self-destructive bent, Mary Rose was wise beyond her years. Dear Nobody reads as one long, raw, primal scream, a wail from the depths of despair that you can’t put down. McNeil may have envisioned the book as the answer to Go Ask Alice, and it certainly joins it as a classic teen book that adults could also enjoy. But Dear Nobody surpasses Go Ask Alice. Read this and weep: The world has simultaneously gained and lost a great writer in Mary Rose. Her debut is also her epitaph. The loss is total and profound.”
I am seventeen. I’m OLD. I’m old. I look great for my age. Very good. I am living my old age. When you were sixteen, how many of your friends did you watch die? Did you know maybe one person that died? One friend? Guess what? I could count my dead friends on my hands. Guess how it feels to have all of your friends being wiped out and slowly dying off by the same Cystic Fibrosis I have?
God never intended this hurt for me. Please, please what did I ever do? Help me. Help them. Help us. Help us, we’re in hell! No one can save us. Not our machines even. Not our pills. Not even all our endless, lonely hospital nights.
Why are you healthy and all of us dying?
I guess I like to be alone and relax in solitude, but I also love huge crowds of people. Someday I want crowds to come to see me, en masse, just to watch me. Sing, act, speak, whatever I don’t care, as long as its all for me.
I want to be so rich that I could donate millions to different charities– and still be FILTHY RICH. I want diamonds, gold, silver, rings, bracelets, and tons of necklaces and earrings. I want to see my reflection from an extravagant dressing room vanity decorated with satin, lace, feathers and bright lights that make my skin glow. Gowns with sequins and lace, rhinestones and silk, and only the best patent leather shoes (with heels) will be all I ever wear in public (unless of course one of my character roles call for some thing else) and my roles of course will only be starring ones, and none of my understudies will be as talented or beautiful or loved (unless they are full of MY characteristics). Jacuzzis, spas, heated kidney-bean-shaped swimming pools, and extravagant bubble baths in gigantic bathrooms will be my leisure hangouts (WHEN I’m not signing autographs, or visiting children’s hospitals, or at book signings).
My death would bring melancholy to nations all over, and they will mourn my loss with such honor and respect that I’ll never be forgotten.
I can dream, can’t I?