Some book covers whisper “intimate memoir.” Others scream “I just figured out how to use WordArt.” Before I Was Mom falls firmly into the latter camp, wrapped in a visual aesthetic so minimal it loops back around into full-blown design oblivion.
Let’s begin with the background, which appears to be… denim? Upholstery? A 1993 Sears catalog’s idea of a comforting texture? Whatever it is, it’s screaming “desktop wallpaper from Windows 95”. It’s the kind of fabric that says, “I’m writing my memoir while also recovering a dining room chair.”
And floating atop this blue linen void is our solo yearbook portrait, cut out with the precision of a butter knife. The edges are rough, the shadows inconsistent, and the whole image just kind of hovers there — like someone’s niece was playing with a scanner and accidentally submitted this to Amazon KDP. It’s less “haunting memory from a pivotal time in my life” and more “hovering ghost of prom photos past.”
Let’s talk typography, because there’s a lot to unpack for a cover that has all the visual hierarchy of a department store receipt. We’ve got a trilogy of fonts that seem to come pre-installed on every 2002 Dell laptop. “Before I Was Mom” is set in a serif that’s trying to be literary, but ends up looking like the invitation to a PTA bake sale. Below that, the subtitle — Reading The World Differently: A Memoir of Dyslexia, Discovery & Science — wraps around itself like it’s trying to explain the book’s content, genre, theme, and academic credentials in one breath. It’s a font-based panic attack.
And then there’s the author’s name. “Ann Rudnick McNicol” just hangs out down there in black text, centered like it’s been grounded. No flair, no thought, just vibes — and not good ones.
But what really takes this cover from “meh” to “why tho” is the emotional dissonance. This is supposed to be a personal, powerful story about dyslexia, discovery, and identity. But the design choices say, “We found this photo in a drawer and slapped it on some generic fabric.” There’s no warmth. No intimacy. No visual storytelling. It looks less like a memoir and more like a graduation party invitation from 1972, if the party had no snacks and everyone left early.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with a minimalist approach — but this isn’t minimalism. This is accidental minimalism, where budget meets default settings and they both give up halfway through. It’s the design equivalent of wearing socks with sandals because you forgot you were going outside.
In the end, Before I Was Mom deserves better — not because the story isn’t valid, but because the design buries it under a pile of Microsoft Office nostalgia and Clip Art-era thinking. Next time, let’s use a cover that actually speaks to the heart of the memoir — and doesn’t look like it was printed at Staples on lunch break.