A Confession

OK, confession time.

I haven't posted for a long time. This is not because I don't love to blog. Because I do. This is not because I haven't been reading. Because I have.

It's because I'm embarrased.

The books I have been reading this spring and summer would not be what one would call classic or quality fiction. Oh no. I have heard the siren lure away from quality towards the you-don't-have-to-think-hard-while-you-read 'em, not-worth-the-paper-it's-printed-on novels you can get at the grocery store or Wallmart near you. (Don't worry, I didn't buy them. They've been from the library or passed on by family members).

Sigh.

Instead of filet mignon, I've been going for the greasy hamburgers of the literary world.

I feel better now that I've made my confession. Not that I have anything against greasy hamburgers. They are delightful. It's just that one should not make a regular diet of them if one wants to be healthy and performing at one's best.

OK, let's ditch the imagery. But still, you get the point. There's nothing wrong with what I've been reading, it's just that there hasn't been anything worth commenting on in the whole lot. And I've gotten lazy and haven't read anything that takes any effort in months.

Bad me. Bad, bad me.

So, what book to take on to change this? Hmmmmmmmmm??????? I must ponder this. Especially right now, while I am in between books. Before I fall into another terribly predictable suspense/ mystery/ romance novel featuring an independant woman who meets a rugged man under trying circumstances, and they solve the mystery together. And one or both of them almost gets killed. Before or after they jump into bed together. But they solve the case and gaze meaningfully into each other's eyes.

Or something like that. Not that I would know, or anything!