Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Why I Love Wonderman
5:18 PM
Today I went down to the capital. While there, I found the library. I had heard rumor of its existence, but had yet to confirm before today. As soon as I walked in, something in my soul sighed in relief. I love being surrounded by books.
Tonight, as I was telling Wonderman about my day, I described my trip to the library and my joy in its discovery. My last sentence to him described how I love being surrounded by books. After waiting a few minutes, he turned to me and said:
"You know how you were talking about books?"
"Yeah. . . . ?"
"Now you know why guys like Hooters."
I had a hard time stopping laughing.
Tonight, as I was telling Wonderman about my day, I described my trip to the library and my joy in its discovery. My last sentence to him described how I love being surrounded by books. After waiting a few minutes, he turned to me and said:
"You know how you were talking about books?"
"Yeah. . . . ?"
"Now you know why guys like Hooters."
I had a hard time stopping laughing.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Are You Kidding Me?
4:50 PM
This post comes with a confession: if there is a book in front of me that looks even remotely interesting, I'll probably read it. It's like Americans in general are with food. If it's there, it's devoured. Sigh.
My weakness brought me to the point of reading yet another ridiculous romance novel. I was at work, things were slow, my co-worker was reading. What's a girl to do? There was a book there that I had passed over in stronger times, but I was approaching boredom, and I pride myself on not indulging in such things.
I read the book. I took it home to finish it. It turned out to be two short novels in one book. The first was wildly passionate, and wildly predictable. The second promised to be the same. However, as I read blithely along, nearing the end (as I could tell as much by the cookie-cutter plot development as by the number of pages left), I read this at the bottom of page 480:
"She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder."
That made sense. I went to 481, to continue in my self-indulgence, and found this at the top of the page:
"for some safe topic."
It simply didn't make sense. I read it again. And again. I wrinkled my brow. I checked the page numbers. Everything seemed to be aligned, but IT WAS A DIFFERENT STORY FROM A DIFFERENT BOOK. Apparently Nora Roberts' books are printed in such haste that the mix-up went without notice. Her titles are at the top of the page, and 480's title was NOT the same as 481's title.
This is odd, and a little funny. It shouldn't be annoying, because I know exactly what's going to happen in the last twenty pages of this formulaic romance. HOWEVER. . . .
I know that she left in a classic huff, whirling away from him when he told her their worlds were just too different and they couldn't be together, holding herself erect until she had driven out of sight, then disintegrating in the solitude of her car. After her spending two weeks at her cousin's casino, of course someone will make contact, offer an olive branch, and they will live happily and passionately ever after. BUT WHO? WHAT IS THE CONTACT? HOW IS THE CONFLICT IN THEIR LIFESTYLES RESOLVED? HOW DOES HE APOLOGIZE?
It bothers me. I find it hard to believe that no one noticed this before it went to print. It is very bothersome, very bothersome indeed.
My weakness brought me to the point of reading yet another ridiculous romance novel. I was at work, things were slow, my co-worker was reading. What's a girl to do? There was a book there that I had passed over in stronger times, but I was approaching boredom, and I pride myself on not indulging in such things.
I read the book. I took it home to finish it. It turned out to be two short novels in one book. The first was wildly passionate, and wildly predictable. The second promised to be the same. However, as I read blithely along, nearing the end (as I could tell as much by the cookie-cutter plot development as by the number of pages left), I read this at the bottom of page 480:
"She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder."
That made sense. I went to 481, to continue in my self-indulgence, and found this at the top of the page:
"for some safe topic."
It simply didn't make sense. I read it again. And again. I wrinkled my brow. I checked the page numbers. Everything seemed to be aligned, but IT WAS A DIFFERENT STORY FROM A DIFFERENT BOOK. Apparently Nora Roberts' books are printed in such haste that the mix-up went without notice. Her titles are at the top of the page, and 480's title was NOT the same as 481's title.
This is odd, and a little funny. It shouldn't be annoying, because I know exactly what's going to happen in the last twenty pages of this formulaic romance. HOWEVER. . . .
I know that she left in a classic huff, whirling away from him when he told her their worlds were just too different and they couldn't be together, holding herself erect until she had driven out of sight, then disintegrating in the solitude of her car. After her spending two weeks at her cousin's casino, of course someone will make contact, offer an olive branch, and they will live happily and passionately ever after. BUT WHO? WHAT IS THE CONTACT? HOW IS THE CONFLICT IN THEIR LIFESTYLES RESOLVED? HOW DOES HE APOLOGIZE?
It bothers me. I find it hard to believe that no one noticed this before it went to print. It is very bothersome, very bothersome indeed.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Strength in Numbers
10:51 PM
Last night I was reading a book from the library. It wasn't high literature, by any means, but it was gripping (it was also so deeply romantic and shmoopey in the most beautiful way it make me ache inside to be so far away from my dear husband). As I read late into the night (you can't easily put books like that down, you know), I came upon what I can only assume was a page marker for some other person who read that book. It made me smile, because it was the wrapper from a mini Hershey bar. In that moment, I felt a strangely intense connection to this woman (is it wrong of me to assume it was a woman, given the facts of it being a romantic-ish novel [not a romance, mind you; that is another genre altogether] combined with chocolate consumption?). It seemed to me that we were the same, she and I. Both curled up on a couch somewhere, reading this fiction and savoring (or perhaps bemoaning) our reality. Either way, I knew that her life was probably hard, but she was a strong woman nevertheless. That's just like me. Of course, I made up the stuff about her, but it certainly felt true. Anyway, I must go. I have some reading to do.
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