How some books reach publication is beyond me. Why some people consider themselves 'writers' is astonishing as well. I suppose I should be content to know that there are clear-eyed editors out there who know how to wield the red stamp of rejection. Bless them for sparing us from narcissistic drivel and just poor writing.
When winter's lack of sunshine ushers in bouts of Seasonal Affective Disorder I enjoy reading thoughtful books, uplifting accounts telling of events and people who have risen above life's sludge to realize their faith, their potential, or a deeper understanding of what is True.
I was given such a book recently, or so I thought. P.U. This book is a stinker! Written by a wannabe hack who can't decide if she wants to be a poet, a biographer, or the purveyor of pointless, titillating tales, it was only with a sense of fairness and hope that I finished this disoriented book. I was left feeling not only ill at ease but gypped. She wasted my time!
Frustrating it is to find inferior 'work' wrapped in a luscious title, with glowing reviews from (read the fine print) people and publications I've never heard of. Yes, I admit it, I became caught up in the manipulation of a creative cover and clever title. Reading the content, however, was like finding coal in my Christmas stocking. At least I could burn the coal for warmth or draw funny pictures on the sidewalk. But this piece of swill only takes up precious space in my home, for I cannot bring myself to burn any book. Reconsidering that.
What comes to mind is the old adage which states that most books would have made great articles; most articles would have made good paragraphs. I would add that some paragraphs would make good spit balls.
The hunt for a new-to-me great book continues. Anything to rinse this foul taste from my mouth.