A few years back I ruffled a few feathers by negatively reviewing a local poet's work whose defense turned out to be that they were poems written for her diary, not originally intended to be published. Fine, I suppose, but we've merely shifted blame to the publishers (and their editors). Not that such a book can't be pulled off, acceptable to outside readers, but without an audience in mind, there's a real danger of it being an exercise in navel gazing.
At its finest moments, and/or those moments when I was feeling most generous, Lucy Knisley's memoir French Milk worked fine as a travelogue. Otherwise, I found this 20-something's Paris tale to be self-indulgent, rushed, and aimless. A perfectly fine personal record of her trip, but the appeal for others is lost on me.