But seriously, the book I was reading at the time, Twelve Steps from Darkness, bored me enough to give up 2/3's of the way through. It felt far more like a contemporary drama about a woman struggling with her alcoholism than a horror story, and I didn't believe her relationships with almost everybody in the book for a second. So I gave up because there are more than enough books in this world for me t
Then came a trashy, brain candy romance, Sexiest Man Alive. I don't read a lot of contemporary romances, but this was charming if not as funny as the excerpt I'd read on a blog somewhere that prompted me to buy the book in the first place. It might have been my mood, but it surprisingly hit the spot.
Which brings me to my current selection. I finally pulled out my copy of Anna Quindlen's Thinking Out Loud. I've actually had this for years and years, but it was pushed to the back of shelves, dismissed as too political for my mood, ignored for any number of reasons. In my recent re-organization, I found it again, and it seemed like a good choice after the romance fluff.
Now, I'm not necessarily a big fan of Anna Quindlen, but I do find her intelligent and thoughtful, and I think her heart is mostly in the right place. I'm not very far, but a passage I just read really got to me, about a woman and her gay son, and I just wanted to share it:
Jeanne Manford didn't want a closet. Her Morty was the same golden boy after she found out he was gay as he was before. She was with him at the Gay Pride march and with him in the gay rights movement.
And she was with him when he died a little more than a week ago of AIDS, almost twenty years to the day after she wrote her unconditional love on poster paper for all the world to see. She does not reproach herself. She loved and accepted her child the way he was. In a perfect world, this would be the definition of "parent" in the dictionary. The point is not what you'll tell your friends at the bridge table. It is what you'll tell yourself at the end.