I am feeling a little less crotchety this morning, probably due to the fact that I finished a great book last night, John Sanford's Naked Prey. The main character is a cop named Lucas Davenport, and although Lucas seems to have mellowed as the series aged, there's still enough muder and mayhem to satisfy my lust for, well, murder and mayhem.
(Aside: how do all those other bloggers manage to use strike outs? You know, where they cross out what they started to say and replace it with something else? And the superscript...like TM in little small letters, how does one do that?)
I have been bookless for a few weeks now (long, involved, boring story about mis-applied credits at my book club, finally resolved), and it had taken its toll. But now all my back-orders have arrived, and I am ready to dive into Lee Child's newest, Persuader. Jack Reacher is another of my favorite characters.
For a decade or so, I was really into sci-fi/fantasy. I still dabble, but once my fav author in the genre, Roger Zelazny, kicked the bucket, my interest waned. Then I read a lot of Historical Romances, but once Roberta Gellis started writing about the 20th century instead of the 12th, I lost interest. So now I pretty much read only Mysteries, with a couple of exceptions.
My all-time favorite author is Robert B. Parker, although Janet Evanovich is starting to give him a run for his money. My ideal book would be Spenser meets Plum. Only I would be laughing so hard I would probably choke to death. Neither of these authors is safe for reading in public, because people look at you oddly when you start cackling like a maniac (sort of like when reading IMAO).
Now if I could just get this horrific semester at school behind me, life would be good--or, at least, less stressful.
I have to go to class. I've been ditching since Monday. Bad Susie.
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