It's a strange beast to say the least.
I can't quite decide if it's fiction (if it was, then it was clunky in its narrative) or if it was a heart-felt memoir (the honesty does seemed tainted with fictional licence).
The subject matter, being the love of a pedophile for a seven year old, is sordid (and not in a good way) and it would take a true artist to write oneself out of such a deep hole and I do not think the author has managed to escape the sensational vortex and rise about the topic.
Having a Alice Sebold quote on your cover doesn't really help but pigeon-hole the 'memoir' as a victim's account of what is essentially a violation of the human body as well as soul.
I read the book in one sitting and while I was impressed with the courage needed to write about it, I am not sure if it really works as a piece of memoir.