Here’s a fun exercise for readers: make a list of the ten books that most shaped you. Not your ten favorites, necessarily, or the ten best, but the ten that found you exactly when you needed them. That’s the premise of Morningstar, Ann Hood’s slim memoir about growing up amid the shuttered mills of 1960s West Warwick. Some of her choices are canon (Little Women, The Bell Jar) while others are all but forgotten relics by Harold Robbins and Herman Wouk, whose weighty hardcovers are thrift store staples. Hood doesn’t dive deep, which is okay, but the memoir-ish bits get surprisingly repetitive, considering the book’s brevity.