Saturday, November 30, 2013

Reading a Book for a Friend

In the tumultuous affairs of recent memory I regret my lack of posting of Friday. It was an oversight, forgive me!

How was your Thanksgiving? My was fine, thank you. It's one of those holidays I relish for it's bounty of free, high quality foodstuffs. I am a simple man, and food is simple enough, my Freudian muse.

The following Friday, yesterday, the day that I should have posted this, was occupied by something far more sinister. I offered to read a book for a friend, by my own volition and enthusiasm, because I genuinely wanted to offer feedback to him for the project. The book is entitled Journey to Rainbow Island, and is the product of a trust fund baby with more money than I or you (reader) could ever hope to achieve in our lifetimes. I actually enjoyed the book, but in no way that one finds favorable. My friend, whom I love dearly is the one who actually wrote it, or at least 85-90% of the book. What is funny is that I can tell which sections of the book are his, and what the remaining 10-15% comprised the mad scrawlings of a depraved, egomaniac that bought a production company in Taiwan, allegedly, just to turn this contrived tale into a Harry Potter film Goliath.

My heart goes out to my friend though. Nay, a medal should be minted by the finest jewelers of Tiffany & Co. for his efforts. He was able to take an awful, horrendous, shell concept (likely to have been written on a napkin at Starbucks during a fleeting moment of inspiration) and make it readable! God save the Queen!

Anyways, I read all 383 pages of it. It took me 8 hours. Was is worth it? Anything for a friend, as I always say.

What kills me is that so much of the book was actually good fantasy, or had the glimmering instances of one anyways. I will spare you a plot summary but the book primarily is a platform for New Age Spiritualism, which preaches more than George Whitfield at Cambuslang Scotland. Every book preaches mind you. (Isn't that why we write books?) I've just never read a book that includes an entire end chapter, that has no greater purpose than advocating some hippy, masturbatory fantasy of what Taoism is.

My hat is off to my friend though, who was paid handsomely for his effort. It is proof that even a rich wannabe, with all the money in the world, can't produce good fiction. Fight to good fight brothers. Write on!


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