There is a formidable stack of review books I need to get through but I made a mistake and picked up the one I wanted to read most first. This goes against my biggest life rule:
If beset with tasks, do the most odious one first.
I hate to refer to some of the books I read for review as odious but, frankly, there it is. Bald, bleeding truth. I read so much, so often that I can smell formula when the book still resides in the mail box.
I try to read out of genre and non-fiction as often as possible to keep crime fiction fresh. And reviewing has steered gems my way that I would not have otherwise read. But figuring the whole plot out in the first two chapters sucks, seeing the inevitable reveal from antagonist to protagonist at the climax (which is just too Scooby Doo for me) makes sameness in any book a sigh inducer.
So, forsaking my little rule, I picked up Connolly's Black Angel and got sucked in like a cow in a tornado. It set me down at 4:30 a.m. and I was sad that the ride was over.
I looked at the stack for this weekend and quickly realized what a disservice I'd done to the not yet read.
Dammit!
2 comments:
I enjoyed reading this book so much that when my eyes got tired, I'd hold one closed to rest it and read with the other.
Finally I got up and dug out my eye drops just so I could keep reading in comfort. Within five minutes of finishing the book, I was in a coma.
Dreaming of ossuaries.
Knowing I won't be able to really sink into till Saturday night, I stopped at page 60 or so.
I know I'll be reading the rest in a single sitting. An Epic begining and all the tell tale signs of his Parker tale yet.
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