I've been reading like a mad-woman lately. Not that this is a bad thing, but it's gone past trying to get away from the writing squirms, and well into my previous addiction. I used to read to the exclusion of everything else. (Hmmm... Sounds like my daughter. Maybe I need to get her into a 12-step program for book-junkies.)
But that's not what I was going to blog about today. I just wanted to let y'all know that after that thoroughly annoying read the other day, I've found a bit of redemption. I read a Sara Paretsky which was awesome, as usual. That helped me get over the blahs a bit. Then I decided to read a book I picked up purely on a whim.
The book has a shocking lime green cover, with a big wad of money emblazoned into the middle of the front. (Anything with a big wad of money on it draws me in.) The title was Fearless Jones. Hmmm... Intriguing.
And ya know what? It was an intriguing little book. I have never heard of Walter Mosley, and there wasn't much about the book I could find in common with my own self. (Other than the main character owning a bookstore.) The book is set in 1950s East LA, and the majority of the characters are black. I'm a white country-girl who's never set foot in California, let alone East LA. And the 1950s occurred twenty years before I was born.
None of that mattered. The gender? The race? The time period? All completely foreign to me, and none of them made a damn bit of difference to my enjoyment of the book. The writing sucked me in, and it held me there.
Like good writing is supposed to do. The book was my bit of redemption after the previous book - which I expected to love and didn't.
Now, I have to set the reading aside and get some work done. =o)
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