I'll admit it now, this is a token post. I say it's token because I am writing it to try and prove that I am not one of those people who loses interest in blogging after only a couple of months. In fact I haven't lost interest at all. I can't wait until I am back into a routine, which this year (from March 3) will be not three days writing a week as it was in 2007 but -- mwah ha ha ha -- five whole days a week. Maintaining this blog has been -- despite what people have feared for me -- a fantastic boost to my writing. Instead of detracting from my work it has been great for loosening all that gravel in my head and making me think sideways, not to mention that just the act of putting words on screen makes way for more words and more words after that.
For now though, my life is a little disrupted, and will continue to be so until aforementioned date of March 3. Until then, I don't really have the luxury of dreaming up nice book and writing related topics at which to tappity-tap away.
So I'll leave you for now with a couple of good page-turny holiday books I have read this summer.
The End of Mister Y by Scarlett Thomas. When I first heard about this I looked it up on the Borders computer then wandered around the 'S' section looking for a book by a guy called Thomas Scarlett. By the time I had realised my mistake, my brother had bought it so I was able to swipe his copy. In our holiday spot my husband was sniffing around my book pile looking for something to read. "You can read any of them except that one," I said. Sure enough, when my back was turned, he had picked up Mister Yand had his nose in it, but he sheepishly put it down whenever I came near. We ended up tag-teaming it, and he finished it just before I did. Which I hope illustrates the hold it has on a poor reader. At the end I admit it was satisfying to turn to someone else for who it was still fresh and discuss the ending. A little heavy on the philosophical theory, but compulsive nonetheless. I'd describe it as a philosophical fantasy thriller. How's that for a new genre?
The Book of Air and Shadows by Michael Gruber. What The Da Vinci Code might have been in the hands of someone who could actually write. A gripping thriller complete with Russian gangsters, a lost Shakespeare manuscript, and interesting, heavily flawed characters who actually have pasts and depth and motivations. Funnily enough, when I logged onto www.goodreads.com to see what others thought of it, one dear lady said that it was like The Da Vinci Code but not as well written. There is absolutley no accounting for taste which must be the most overused cliche in the world in relation to books (and particularly the sale of books) but it is so damned true.
Perhaps you could think of this post not so much as token as a place holder. I will be back.
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