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Random quote of the day:
"If you love it enough, anything will talk to you."
—George Washington Carver
( Illustrated version. )
"If you love it enough, anything will talk to you."
—George Washington Carver
( Illustrated version. )
Jun. 25th, 2008
Good reading and guilty pleasures
Jun. 25th, 2008 02:32 pmSo the Goodreads newsletter just asked me, "Do you have any new books to share with your friends?"
My answer: "Not that I'd admit in public."
The Argh! book that I mentioned over the weekend could go on the list, but I will probably spare the world my review. And spare myself the embarrassment. I'm still reading the damned thing, in fits and starts, though I don't wanna, I don't! I'm alternating that book with Working for the Devil by Lilith Saintcrow and Medicus by Ruth Downie, and a little bit of Bundori by Laura Joh Rowland. I'm having trouble settling down to a good read right now and what I do seem to stick with is the guiltiest of guilty pleasures.
I feel vaguely ashamed. I used to be such a hardcore reader, unafraid of anything, willing to slog through the tough stuff in the good cause of betterment.
I'm not that person anymore. Mainly these days I just want to be entertained. I don't absolutely require an HEA—bittersweet can often be better—but I've read enough of downbeat, tragic endings, thank you very much. Life is too short, RL especially good at providing its own downbeat and tragic endings. I want to escape all that. I want to be taken away somewhere marvelous, or some aspect of this life unlike my own, into the deepest of mysteries or the breeziest of romances. My favorite books don't have to be upbeat—can, in fact, be gritty, grimy, dark, moody, bittersweet, and broken.
Just not tragic. Can't take the blues anymore.
I get softer as I get older, not harder, and I'm too much of a wimp now for books that are "good for me." I've learned to live with the guilt, to lap it up like cheap, sweet wine. Makes for a bad hangover some mornings, but ain't nothing a couple of aspirin—or another belt of cheap, sweet wine—can't cure.
My answer: "Not that I'd admit in public."
The Argh! book that I mentioned over the weekend could go on the list, but I will probably spare the world my review. And spare myself the embarrassment. I'm still reading the damned thing, in fits and starts, though I don't wanna, I don't! I'm alternating that book with Working for the Devil by Lilith Saintcrow and Medicus by Ruth Downie, and a little bit of Bundori by Laura Joh Rowland. I'm having trouble settling down to a good read right now and what I do seem to stick with is the guiltiest of guilty pleasures.
I feel vaguely ashamed. I used to be such a hardcore reader, unafraid of anything, willing to slog through the tough stuff in the good cause of betterment.
I'm not that person anymore. Mainly these days I just want to be entertained. I don't absolutely require an HEA—bittersweet can often be better—but I've read enough of downbeat, tragic endings, thank you very much. Life is too short, RL especially good at providing its own downbeat and tragic endings. I want to escape all that. I want to be taken away somewhere marvelous, or some aspect of this life unlike my own, into the deepest of mysteries or the breeziest of romances. My favorite books don't have to be upbeat—can, in fact, be gritty, grimy, dark, moody, bittersweet, and broken.
Just not tragic. Can't take the blues anymore.
I get softer as I get older, not harder, and I'm too much of a wimp now for books that are "good for me." I've learned to live with the guilt, to lap it up like cheap, sweet wine. Makes for a bad hangover some mornings, but ain't nothing a couple of aspirin—or another belt of cheap, sweet wine—can't cure.