I've been away. I took the baby boy to college for Freshman Orientation. He had a great time swinging from one student party to another. I attended parent lectures and worried. His great time was a whole lot better than my great time. He came back home since classes don't start for another three weeks. I voiced what few concerns I may have had. He told me to cut the cord. Cut the cord, indeed. I think I'll just go write another book instead. Something angst-ridden and sappy because that is surely how I’m feeling right about now.
I love reading. I get excited when I discover a new author or find an outstanding story. I’m eager to leave reviews and share with others my new finds. When a book or story is lackluster, leaving me less than thrilled, I usually remain silent. I know the effort that an author has put into a story. I know how hurtful a bad review can be. It is not for me to dash anyone else’s dream because what I might not have liked, someone else may have loved. Recently I read books that left me disappointed, and angry. One was an award-winning title, the author gleefully claiming a coveted statue for her efforts. Clearly what I hated, others found award-worthy. And that actually scares me. The story was as well-written as any other in the genre. Its formulaic plot hit all the buttons that her publisher required. But as a woman of color, I found it as insulting and as distasteful as any story I have ever read. The story featured a Native American heroine. She had self-esteem issues, co...
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