It’s 11:36 P.M. as I start this post, giving in to the obligatory “Holy fucking shit the Harry Potter book is finally here” craze. Yeah, I’m one of the millions who rank themselves as huge drooling fan. While I happen to be at home getting pasted (South African cabernets, that’s my new thing) rather than standing in line like a tool at the bookstore waiting for midnight, I will admit that come morning, I’ll be running my ass straight to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square where I have a copy reserved.

Fact: I was a children’s librarian for about seven years. While I don’t particularly like children (gross understatement), over those years I developed quite a fondness for intelligent, artistic and creative children’s literature. In short, I kind of liked the really good stuff.

However, at the time, I refused to give in to the Harry Potter frenzy. People were crazy about it, no different than today, but back then it was this new thing cutting into the glory obtained by the tried and true blue ribbon prizewinners like Roald Dahl, my favorite sociopath or C.S. Lewis, the God freak with his pagan lions, satyrs and Turkish delights and others. Truth told, while there were good books, the genre of young adult and children’s literature was in a formulaic rut. The sixties and seventies had introduced a new style, centered on reaching out to those whacked out kids, speaking to them on their level and addressing important issues of the day in hip, “now” style. Authors like Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume and others, while occasionally writing the good book here and there, sucked the life out of children’s literature. Instead of original ideas, kids were served up problems, straight from rap sessions of child therapists presented with a neat little story to flesh it out, tie it up and present it in a nice little package. It was as if the book publishers were frightened of children and encouraged only books that were grounded in real life issues, be they realistic or thinly cloaked in some pseudo fantasy/sci-fi bubblegum bullshit so as not to foster any flights of real fantasy but above all, to impress upon them the all powerful edict: Today’s Kids Are Really Fucked Up.

When I was growing up nearly all the books, force-fed me by the pathetic adults that didn’t know what to do with me featured children, who when faced with a serious social, pharmaceutical, family, sexual, whatever problem, overcome and deal with the issues in an occasionally funny, but heartwarming and serious way. Could such a formula help kids recognize issues and open lines of dialog with adults and peers? Yeah, I guess…sorta. More importantly, does it reinforce the fallacy that in today’s world, to be real, to be of consequence, to be a hero, you gotta be fucked up and deal with drama?

These “Theradramas” were everywhere. Whenever anyone didn’t know what to do with me, invariably at some stage in the process, I’d end up with a Judy Blume book with the hopes that there’d be some miraculous epiphany that would save my parents from actually having to understand me. It sucked fucking donkey balls.

To have an imagination, to have flights of fantasy that serve no constructive purpose but to entertain is dangerous. “Dear God! There’s no fucking moral to the story! If I let my kid read this, why, he’ll end up a gay, crack smoking amputee! Myrtle, fetch me the Judy Bloome’s, God-Dammit!”

Whatever happened to the belief that reading fiction is a pleasurable exercise in escaping from life’s problems? I’m not sure who was behind the idea that children and young adult fiction without a serious moral backbone in it, without addressing real issues is heretical fluff, but whoever made that decision needs to be drawn and quartered. Their head needs to be mounted on a spike as a sign to out of touch parents everywhere that their children’s minds are not theirs to limit with the mundane and the practical at the expense of fantasy, imagination and enjoyment.

That’s why I love the Harry Potter books. That’s why I love the books of Phillip Pullman. They’re not trying to teach you about teen pregnancy, drug addiction or alcoholic dads. They’re not trying to get you to talk to your deadbeat parents about whats going on inside because your never going to do it anyway because they suck and no bullshit pulp novel is going to change that. The books are not about problems, it’s about getting you away from them, if only for a few scant hours of your miserable life. That’s what makes these books great.

If you’re not a fan already, I suggest you pick up a Potter book today. If you can, make your parents buy it for you. Likely they owe you for the shit they made you read all those years ago. Do it, you should at least know what you missed out on.