I’ve been reading old mysteries–Allingham, Christie, Francis, etc.–and taking many naps. I did try one new book and really didn’t like it (name withheld to protect living author) because I wanted to slap the protagonist, always a bad sign. New mantra: Please let me never write a slappable protagonist. Of course, some people will find damn near anybody slappable. Sigh.
So what did you read this week? Any unslappable protagonists?
This month it’s comfort reads for me all the way. What are you reading?
It’s summer. This is my second favorite poem about swimming. Except it’s not about swimming. It had a huge impact on me in 1975 and it seems equally relevant today in this regressive age. Also Adrienne Rich is an amazing poet. Continue reading
This week I read Agatha Christie because that’s about all I could cope with. First time I ever realized you need to be healthy to read, or at least achieve a minimal rate of oxygen exchange. Christie is a truly abysmal romance writer, but she’s solid on character and terrific at plotting. My Golden Age faves are Allingham and Heyer and Gilbert (stretch Golden Age a bit there), but Christie is always a classic. So what are you reading?
This week I sobbed my way through Jessica Parks’ wildly romantic 180 Seconds. It’s not depressing, the dog does not die, but it is an emotional roller coaster, even if the love interest is so damn wonderful it’s hard to believe he’s real. Of course, the heroine has problems believing in him, too. Really great love story, all different kinds of relationships, just a lovely book. But you’re gonna cry.
What did you read this week?
(Any suggestions for how to change the Good Book Thursday header for July? They had kittens up there in June, you know.)
I’m on a P. G. Wodehouse binge because I was getting too dark in my own novel and because it’s summer and in the summer, the best place to laugh is Blanding’s Castle. Also you have to love an author who replies to his critics this way: Continue reading
It’s summer, let’s read Stevie Smith. This is my favorite poem about swimming. Except it’s not about swimming.
I’ve been reading Edmund Crispin–I’m going through a British mystery binge–and I’d forgotten how wonderfully off-the-wall Glimpses of the Moon is. The detective, Gervase Fen, wanders about an English village with his friend the Major and a confused journalist, idly questioning colorful locals about a murder that’s already been solved, carrying a pig’s head in a bag at all times, until he finally, on page 51, arrives home alone, and looks in the mirror: Continue reading
How I managed to get to my advanced age without reading Colin Watson’s Flaxborough mysteries is beyond me; I even did my first master’s thesis on mysteries (“‘A Spirit More Capable of Looking Up To Him’: Women’s Roles in Mystery Fiction from 1845 to 1920,” don’t look it up, it’s terrible). Then the first one showed up as a Book Bub special and I was hooked. Just finished the seventh one, lovely real old-fashioned British murder mystery, not at all stodgy, in fact pretty wry while still being comfortably cozy. It’s been a drizzly week today, perfect for reading about quirky death in quirky small villages. Then I went to download the seventh and found out it’s not in e-book form until the 31st, and the publication of the rest is being strung out even longer, into July. You know, these are old books. Why not put them all out at once? Annoying, but Watson is worth the wait.
So what are you reading?
Well, her new book is Heartless, the final book in the House of Rohan series, and it’s on sale today at Amazon. She says there’s even a Crusie Easter Egg inside if you look hard enough.
We’re going to do a Slack chat later this week (next week? we’ll get to it) talking about the book and writing and probably cats and dogs and food because we have difficulty with focus, but in the meantime, that cover is great and the story inside is probably even better. Off to buy my copy now.
Anne Stuart’s Heartless: Continue reading