I say it's a gentle rant because earlier I drafted a partial post that's an uncharacteristically harsh, Christopher-Hitchens-would-be-proud, screed in which I railed against the publishing industry, libraries, the average reader and a bunch of other things I won't go into here because I couldn't bring myself to hit the SEND button before, so why say the same thing now when I know I won't send that, either?
That was a long sentence. Take breath here.
Suffice to say, I'm dealing with quite a lot of disgust at present. Disgust, frustration, despair and an overwhelming abundance of ANGER, both personally and professionally. And semi-professionally, as "professional" may be too strong a term for all I do, which may more accurately be described as MANIA. Though didn't we start covering that in a previous post about blogs and reviewing, personal opinion vs. journalistic analysis? Yes, we did start, though I wouldn't consider the debate finished as yet. If it will ever be.
Sometimes it seems as if the stars align - either for or against one - or some mystical combination of fate and destiny collide/collude for the amusement of a looker-on who should, frankly, get another hobby. Right now, I'm being hit from every side by at least one representative of each sector of my life. It's so intense I feel a strong urge to run out into the middle of a field - or hobble, in my arthritic case - and scream my fool head off until not another sound will come out of my mouth, then lose consciousness and disappear until just before the farm implements show up to harvest. Preferably just before, to achieve the maximum relaxation time.
Life is very not fun right now.
Interestingly enough (to me), I have actually been reading, fitting in as much as I can. It's a fantastic escape, as if that's news. I read Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend by Matthew Dicks and did I ever enjoy it. It's a young adult novel that crosses over well, to a certain demographic of adults (READ: Me). Think of the concept of a child's imaginary friend as a sentient entity who feels affection and protectiveness for his/her host, then that imaginary friend as having relationships with other imaginary friends as a sort of delusional social club.
Come to think of it, that's pretty much my life...
Anyhoo.
The main character in this novel is a young boy named Max, a child with a mild to moderate form of autism. His imaginary friend is named Buda and when Max disappears it's only Buda who knows what happened. So, how does he go about helping Max? Read the book. It's not deeeep literature but it's certainly a well-written read. Really fast-paced, keeping interest via the inventiveness of the author as far as the social life of imaginary friends, as well as personality and other issues for children with autism.
Be back with more soon. This pretty much wipes me out for now.
