picking up…

My husband picked up James Patterson’s Maximum Ride #1: The Angel Experiment for our daughter for Christmas. I am reading it now; careful not to crease or fold or leave finger prints. I am about halfway through the first book in an extensive series.

I bemoan lengthy series; even as I read J.D. Robb’s In Death series. I do, however, appreciate the continuity, the familiarity, and the ease in which it is to shop for holiday gifts. We are hoping Maximum Ride will be a good series to follow, and light enough, despite the page length.

Sean (the husband) keeps mentioning the Peter and the Starcatcher‘s franchise, but I am daunted by those books. He and Natalya aren’t so frightened by thick tomes, so as long as we can just read them and not partition it off in the evenings it will not take months to finish.

I just finished reading an acquaintance’s (hope to consider at some time a friend) story she wrote for nanowrimo. She bravely posted her draft in the chat circle that one of my good friends’ created for November. This woman also invited comments. Though we can all agree the collaborative process is beneficial, it is also potentially painful. Hopefully I was coherent, and not horribly difficult. I am trying for an assertive enough voice to be a critical reader, but I haven’t an editor’s backbone–yet.

I also finished, just before then, The Midwife’s Apprentice by Karen Cushman. I picked it up at the library for the daughter, not sure she got to it before we had to return it. This is yet another one of those books where I was left wondering, “where was I when this was written? How could I be neglected as to have not been given this to read?” Go ahead and use your most ridiculously dramatic intonation, but it is true. The book was copyrighted 1995, so I was a junior in high school and reading the classics and/or trashy novels then–that is how I was neglected.

The book is fun and gritty and I wish  I could recommend it to my friends for their kids before they turn 17. Or this should motivate me to make more friends, the kind who are less concerned with what their children read than even I am. That is not to say that there anything  to really consider profane in The Midwife’s Apprentice; it just is not the world of cleanliness and manners and happy endings or the luckiest of heroines (though I suppose she is, in the end, rather fortunate). The violence is of a different sort, and the superstition is fabulous, and alarming–ah, medieval times.

Published by L

I read, and I write. and until recently, I sold books.

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