Apparently I am perfectly happy to read about straight couples, so long as they are separated by insurmountable, perhaps even supernatural, obstacles. This series makes my heart seize up with the romance of it all.

This book was a Christmas gift from my partner, who selected it for me because the graphic elements reminded her of Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves, which she has not read, but which I've infodumped to her about multiple times in the course of our relationship thus far. Mendelsund is using elements of ergodic literature here differently than does Danielewski in House of Leaves: as a graphic designer, Mendelsund incorporates far more images into his work than does Danielewski, who (with some exceptions) relies more heavily on font, footnotes, and other formatting elements to challenge and (mis)lead his readers.

Mendelsund is much kinder to his audience than Danielewski is to his; an appropriate difference between an exploration of the act of reading and a horror novel that deals with the deterioration of space and sanity. But what they seem to have in common is an awareness of the demand that a text places on its reader. Even texts that do not require "non-trivial" effort on the part of their readers do demand some degree of co-creative effort. The reader must imagine, envision, and in some ways create the characters, settings, and scenes that the author suggests through language. There is unavoidable effort involved in translating text to a mental image, even if the effort is undertaken automatically and without a preponderance of thought.

Mendelsund's project strikes me as well-suited to this image-heavy approach, precisely because he is demanding visualization of the reader. What better way to cut out the possibility of the reader visualizing something other than what he means than to literally show the reader what he means? How better to render subjective ideas such as the speed of a book or the "shape" of an author's prose than to make images to represent them? Mendelsund relies on language-based metaphors in his writing, but his images, too, serve as metaphors, and particularly vivid ones, at that, which run less risk of misinterpretation.

Succinctly put, I really liked What We See When We Read, and I liked Mendelsund's approach. This is an interesting book on both intellectual and visual levels, and I feel that I'll return to it in the future, both to ponder and to look. Mendelsund puts forth ideas that have applications not only to my life as a reader, but to my work as a writer of fiction and poetry, and some of these, I think, certainly merit a second reading.

The further along the series goes, the better I think it captures the mingled euphoria and terror of loving another person. Over the last couple of volumes, I came to interpret alchemy as a metaphor for the joining of two dissimilar people, and Frolatti's sinister machinations as a metaphor for the ways that fear and distrust sabotage love.

2.5 rounded up. This was not exactly the cozy, small business slice-of-life with a side of paranormal adventure that I was expecting. Overall, I thought there was far too much dialogue (although some of it had a Buffyesque brand of nerd humor that I liked) and lusting after sexy dudes, and not enough worldbuilding or magic. Charlie was by far my favorite character, and I hear that there are selkies in the second installment... Undecided whether that is enough enticement to continue the series.

It took me nearly two years after starting Neurotribes to finish reading it, but in no way should that be taken as a negative impression of its quality. Reading it in the month following my autism diagnosis was a bit too much for me. I was still in the process of reframing my self-concept through the lens of autism, adjusting to the novelty of having a name for all of the facets of my personality that I had attributed to eccentricity or flaw. While it was wonderful to know that I had a broader context in which I could fit myself, it was disorienting to unlearn the autistic stereotypes that had in the past alienated me from the diagnosis. Additionally, it was horrifying to confront the long history and ongoing practices of abuse leveled at neurodivergent people, and to realize that not only were there people in the past who would rather I didn't exist, but people living today who also share that opinion, even if it's dressed up in nicer clothes with a puzzle piece enamel pin glinting from its lapel.

There is much to outrage in Neurotribes, not the least of which being the shoddy methodology underlying research that still influences some people's beliefs about autism--Andrew Wakefield, I'm looking at you. However, there is also much to affirm an autistic reader. It's heartening to be able to view myself as a person with a history and a culture surrounding my diagnosis.

But perhaps the most affirming aspect of Neurotribes is the attitude of respect and genuine interest with which Silberman writes about us. The autistic people he profiles don't come across as case studies; they come across as people. Silberman allows us to speak for ourselves, and to imagine a world that works with us rather than against us in a way that makes that world feel possible. I wish that everyone who tries to discuss autism could do so with this attitude. It would make the conversations much more productive.

Bridges the original Griffin & Sabine and the Morning Star trilogies. I'm torn about whether I would recommend reading them in chronological or publication order. Something in me enjoyed the uncertainty of not having confirmation of "what really happened" until the end of the series.

It took me awhile to warm up to what Amber Dawn is doing here, but once our rhythm was established, I sank into these brazen poems dealing with queer community, sex work, gentrification, and love. This is my first encounter with the glosa form, and now I want to start collecting quatrains to experiment with writing my own.

"And how will I claim my body this time?
And will poetry still help me make this claim?"

I need to have a physical copy of this book on hand for when I start thinking that poetry is a pointless exercise in abstraction and ego-stroking and that no one will ever want to read my gay little poems.