My Issue With Sylvia Plath
Disclaimer: If I was a coward or a sensible human, I’d post this as some sort of fictional work. I am neither. But if you know me and would rather pretend this post isn’t real, for the sake of our friendship, that’s cool.
I’ve been trying for days to figure out how to write this post without sounding like a bitter, unfeeling hag. Then, I realized, more than that, I have to find a way to say what I mean to say without sounding like a pitiable, whiny, woe-is-me turd. Finally, I came to the conclusion that I just need to say what I’m going to say, post this “review” and let it sound however it will sound; because ultimately, though I am a writer and can be precise or flowery with my words, I cannot control how you hear/ read them. I am not that powerful. Maybe that just means I’m a terrible writer, but we’ll let those insecurities ride for another day…
I finally read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It was my dead friend’s birthday and I thought he deserved a proper wallow, what better way to have a healthy wallow than to read a classic novel written by a woman who put her head in an oven?
So I took a bath, all appropriately scalding hot, and settled down into this:
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: “I’ll go take a hot bath.”
This, of course, made me giggle at the wisdom of my selection.
Mostly, though, I felt a familiarity about the book, the characters, and all the feelings, that just outright angered me. She talks about things that make her sad and tired, and then how thinking about being sad and tired makes her more sad and tired. I found one of my own personal college friends in Doreen, the party girl from the deep south. I found myself in the narrator’s alter ego, inspired by an outing with Doreen, the party girl.
As I read, I got deeper and deeper into the narrator’s not-so-dark and twisty brain and followed her around as she thought about killing herself and received shock therapy while being hospitalized with the other crazies. I thought of Girl, Interrupted and Susannah Keyson and realized why, exactly, this book was familiar, and enjoyable, but ultimately a deep itch under my skin.
Everyone feels that way – the way Sylvia Plath’s autobiographical character feels. Everyone struggles to live, and if they don’t then I’m shocked. Reading The Bell Jar I just wanted to scream at a very dead Sylvia Plath, and every other depressed person I’ve known, and even the depressed person I’ve been and sometimes still am:
WHAT MAKES YOU SO SPECIAL? What makes you so special that you get to bask in your insanity? Nothing. That’s what. You’re just taking advantage of living in a world that works harder than you to exist.
That’s probably unfair, and shows an utter lack of compassion, but it’s how I feel.
Because it is hard work. Getting out of bed every morning is a mental exercise. Keeping yourself from crawling back in – or worse being a drunk slob for the hours you’re awake – is a physical exercise. Every day you have to create and maintain specific habits to keep yourself from sliding into the glorious abyss of a terrible wallow… a wallow of anxieties, simultaneously deep and restless sleep, an attitude called The Mean Reds (thanks, Holly Golightly), and a conflicting desire to both eat yourself into obesity or starve yourself to death – it could go either way.
Every day is a challenge to make the counting in your head stop. And with all this counting, it’s a struggle to actually sit down and count the things you’re supposed to. My drawer was ten cents off at work the other day, which naturally (and I would have said the same thing to anyone else), they teased me about not being able to count – because it wasn’t actually off, I had just documented it as off. Want to know what that sounds like? If your brain is anything like mine, which for the sake of this entire post I’m going to assume that for many people it is, my brain processed the comments a bit like this…
A Rising Panic Attack
Recognition that this was a joke
Panic Attack Subsides, only to start up again wondering if they think you’re stupid, or, worse…
Did they catch on to the fact that you were counting dimes over top of the counting already happening in your head – the one that finds itself ticking in time with any and every clock on the wall, the one that falls in tune to your steps as you walk across tile floors, still looking at your feet when you walk even though you are now in your thirties. The rhythm that helps you get your work done fast when you’re methodically shelving and alphabetizing, but might trip you on the street if you encounter a crack in the sidewalk – because you’re never sure if that day is a no crack day or a step ON the crack day… not until you do one or the other and the part of you begins to panic. Did they notice this?
While all this is happening in your head, you realize your rhythm is gone. Your heart was racing, but now it suddenly stopped altogether and you find yourself both mentally and physically trying to catch your breath, but you play it cool when you remind yourself that even though you *feel* like your head has bubble wrap duct taped around it and that you’ve been thrown into a swimming pool – that’s not what you look like. No one sees your bubble wrap face. They also don’t realize, hopefully, that you can’t hear them right now.
Your left pinky finger starts to tingle and you crack the knuckle to make it stop, to regain feeling. Only this time it hurts and you look down and see it is more bent than usual. Long ago it was broken, right now it simultaneously feels numb and broken. You wonder if you re-broke it sometime this week and didn’t notice.
The Heart Flutters.
Post-it notes are raining on your head, but they are in teals and oranges and easily arranged and filed into your handy-dandy mental filing cabinets – alphabetized and roughly dated. (Yes, I have those. If I’m too terribly distracted, the notes turn yellow and green, they’re only their orange and teal shades when I’m looking directly at them. The filing cabinets are the old metal kind, the ones you find on the side of the road or in ancient school building, rickety and decidedly thrown away by someone more sane than me.)
During all of this, life goals and contingency plans are running in the background. What if my husband dies? I could come back to work full time here. We’ve accomplished x,y,z so it’s probable. But I can’t count dimes, that might be a problem. If he died by car crash, I go _____. If he dies by _____, I go ______. If I die, he does not die…. If this than that. It takes me 30 seconds to map out a life plan from a newly presented scenario. It takes another 30 seconds for me to make a list of resources I think I need to implement this life plan effectively. Life Plan 3,069 logged away in filing cabinet 192, June 2015.
Your ears pop – as though you’ve ACTUALLY been under water, which briefly makes you wonder. Wonder about what? The Matrix, of course, are you in The Matrix? Or God’s brain? My husband thinks we are all synapses in a giant God-head’s brain. I ponder the biology of that while I – or you – think about The Matrix and how Neo didn’t realize he was stuck, naked, in a bubble of goo while his brain was plugged in to what he thought was real.
Suddenly, you’re cold all over and briefly wonder if you might be in goo too. Then you realize that for some inexplicable reason (the smell of old books? the comfort of the books? the smell of the person who just passed you by?) you’re not in goo, you’re just horny and why haven’t you ever had sex in a library or a bookstore? Oh, because the NSA is watching, yes, that’s why.
Less than a minute has passed since you were teased about the dimes and your inability to count. People have been talking around you, and you’ve even piped in – whether sensibly or not, you can’t be sure – and finally a customer asks you a question. This part is easier. The question is a book title, or an author. (I honestly don’t remember now.) But when someone asks something like this, it’s easier to get around all the warehouse like noise in the mind. The color coded post-it notes of fragmented thoughts are discarded, the flow-charts of contingency plans for life are swept momentarily aside and you consult your filing cabinets and bookshelves for the answer to their question. Maybe they asked you about dystopian fiction and you’re walking them through a list of your favorites. Maybe they just want a book that reminds them of red fields of grass, which they have to read for sophomore English – naturally you pluck up Catcher in the Rye by Salinger and they marvel at how you knew, or (depending on the customer) take it for granted that of course you knew exactly what they were talking about because they described the book so well.
The point is, this is constant and every day. Everyone has a thousand things happening in their heads that no one knows about. And frankly, not everyone needs to know about. When I’m having a hard time quieting the characters for my fiction, who like to gather around my filing cabinets and gab at me, or making the what if flow charts stop, when I can’t seem to stay out of the damn bubble wrap pool party – I chatter. I get clammy and chatter to whoever will listen. Because if my mouth is running, then I don’t have to listen to the chatter in my brain as much… I can ever so briefly shut them the hell up. The point is, I’m not sticking my head in any ovens. I make do.
It’s not fun. It’s not easy. It’s down right exhausting. It’s noisy, and it’s lonely. It is an effort to remember to feed myself and to feed others, and when I eat – not to eat too much. I am held together by the fact that I must sweep and mop this floor every day, that the things happening in my husband’s head are far worse than mine so someone has to keep it together. That some people out there have worse problems – like being raped and or being torn from limb to limb as they refuse to renounce Christ.
Yet, this twat, who was an amazing writer and artist, who had two kids that needed her… stuck her head in a freaking oven. Would that be easier? Yes. Was she crazy? Yes. But no more or less than anyone else, in my self-admittedly judgmental opinion.
Despite all that, I checked out her Bed-Book and read it to my daughter – it’s a lovely children’s picture book, and am currently reading both her diaries and her letters to her mother. Because I like her, I do. I feel like I know her and have been her. I feel like if I am not careful, I could be her again – but at least I’ll have the sense to keep my head out of ovens. (Although, when I was a kid, I used to bend over in the laundry room, holding a button down, to dry my hair in the clothes dryer – very effective…)
The Clover House
Title: The Clover House
Author: Henriette Lazaridis Power
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Length: 397 pages
It took me much longer than it should have to read this book. It has the vibe of a Kate Morton novel, but didn’t quite enrapture me in the same way – mostly because I am preoccupied. It’s possibly ironic because this preoccupation was along the same vein of that of the main character – but I was left unmoved.
It’s the slipperiness of memory that caught my attention though. How some people remember things so drastically different than other people who were right there in the same room. How perceptions are changed by knowledge. How ignorance is not always bliss, but can be if you let it.
I think more than anything, the book was good, but perhaps I wasn’t ready for it. And if I was, perhaps I’m just not ready to discuss it. Don’t be surprised if I bring it up six months from now, once I’ve digested it all.
The Further Adventures of Mac McClellan!
Title: Deadly Ruse
Author: E. Michael Helms
Publisher: Seventh Street Books
Genre: Mystery/ Suspense
Length: 237 pages
Retired marine, private eye, sexy girls, whiskey, drugs, diamonds, casinos, the good ol’ South… what more could you ask for in a genre crime novel?
I enjoyed my second adventure with Mac McClennan. Despite the self-depricating B-movie references to its own plot points, closing a Mac McClennan book always leaves me wanting more Mac.
Of course, Mac has women fawning over him and his older gentleman charm. His girlfriend can take care of herself, but still finds it in herself to swoon into a faint in the opening chapters. Our heroes tote guns, our villains are scum. It’s all around good, fast-paced fun set in the sun, with just the right amount of danger.
I look forward to Mac’s next adventure, since he’s on the verge of being an official P.I. now…
Justified
Title: Ape and Essence
Author: Aldous Huxley
Genre: Fiction/ Literature/ Allegory
Length: 152 pages
Of the four Aldous Huxley books included on the 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die list, is not one of them.
With good reason.
While I was reading I kept thinking, I like the concept, but I am aghast that this is the man famous for a book that millions are required to read for school. Not because there is anything bad about it… it’s just… really? This is the kind of stuff we want to force teenagers to read? It’s disjointed, surly, and… dare I say… a little boring.
The best moment, by far, was when I read:
‘Give back that ring.’
‘Which ring?’ the man falters.
At which point my nerdy self said to my book: “The one that will rule them all, duh!”
To be fair, the book that is typically required reading for students is Brave New World, not Ape and Essence. So, naturally, I had to do a bit of research before considering reading Brave New World, giving Huxley a chance to prove himself in my eyes. If I can’t stomach 152 pages of the man, why would I submit myself to more?
I feel justified in my disappointment, because as my kid sat and worked through a literacy program on the computer at the library, I consulted the Concise Dictionary of Literary Biography: Volume 6: Modern Writers 1914-1945, and read up on Huxley and this piece of drivel I had just plowed through.
There I read, “Aldous strained to pile horror upon cross horror… the book, it always seemed to me, achieves a high degree of unbearableness.”
There I also read, “most the characters and ideas come from a discount Huxley warehouse.”
Deep sigh of exasperated relief. I don’t have to like this book. Thank God.
Mikhaul Bakhtin described Huxley’s work as the “Canivalesque Novel.” Others in this category would be Rabelais’ Gargantua and Cervantes Don Quixote. These novels are known for “emphasizing inclusion rather than selection” and are “structured like a ‘plate of mixed fruit.’” They are known as the anti-novel.
Sheldon Sacks, on the other hand, considered Huxley’s work as apolgoues, like More’s Utopia, Voltaire’s Candide, and Johnson’s Rasselas… fictions structured as persuasive arguments. (For the record, I am basically paraphrasing – and point blank quoting – the CDBLB!)
The title for Ape and Essence was taken from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, when Isabella says:
Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,
A sFor every pelting, petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder;
Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven,
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Again, I have not read Brave New World, but I come away with the overpowering sense that perhaps it is easier to digest because, like the CDBLB says, Brave New World is about what could happen; Ape and Essence is presented as something that probably will. Ape and Essence leaves you with nothing to hope for, and in a world full of agony – hope is vital. The whole book is about how “faith in progress has led to outright regression,” and the book ends with an egg being cracked over a gravestone.
A society so driven by perfection and stamping out rebellion and evil that they have destroyed everything. They do not have the hope and insight of Steinbeck when he wrote in East of Eden, “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” Instead, everyone strives for perfection until they’ve essentially destroyed themselves and everything around them. They’ve destroyed the world’s ability to think and grow.
Ape and Essence is the most depressing piece of near-satire I’ve ever encountered.
The man himself, however, had some awesome things to say on the nature of writing. Many people read his novels and were irritated by finding mirror images within some of his characters. After a few lost friends he responded,
“Of course I base my characters partly on people I know – one can’t escape it – but fictional characters are oversimplified; they’re much less complex than the people one knows. There is something of (John Middleton) Murry in several of my characters, but I wouldn’t say I’d put Murry in a book.”
I could not say it better myself. Characters may seem a bit like this person or that, but never, never is any fiction that I write in any way biographical. So even though I did not care for Ape and Essence, I came away from researching Huxley fulfilled – and justified.
Emissary
Title: Emissary
Author: Chris Rogers
Genre: Science Fiction Literature
Length: 434 pages
Sometimes being a reviewer is hard. That sounds silly, because I love it! But when you recognize a GOOD book and you can’t seem to get into it, it’s a little painful on the emotions. (Just like I’ve recognized books as crap and managed to love every minute of them… that part is just painful on the ego.) It’s even harder when you begin building recurring author/reviewer relationships, see these people face to face and have to tell them: It’s brilliant, but I couldn’t get into it. I don’t get to hide behind the anonymity of a computer screen, I book these lovely people for signings and see them around. I enjoy that I can’t hide, it perhaps makes me kinder. But it does not make me any less honest. In fact, it maybe keeps me more honest, because I know we’ll chat later and I know that my facial expressions never lie. I’m the kind of person that can’t manage to tell a cancer patient that they’re looking good when they’re not. I end up saying, “You look better than you have!” At which point, true story, they laugh and say, “Atleast you’re honest.” My facial expressions could be the death of me.
Let me premise by saying: I am not copping out with a back handed compliment. Emissary truly is brilliant! From a literary perspective, it’s Rogers’ best work. It has the most depth, the most importance. I just couldn’t get into it. 
Maybe it’s exhaustion, the holidays, or the fact that I’m just not in the mood for so many characters, but I wanted to devour Chris Rogers’ latest title as I have done all her others – but I didn’t. I plodded. I got distracted. Between readings I forgot whether Longshadow or President Hale was the leading character, and what their role in the story was. Ruell and I weren’t communicating well and I kept wanting him to be more tangible like Dax from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Every time Rogers mentioned a town or country or other world, I started thinking about geography and history books, space, and the milky way… I was reading science fiction and my mind kept grasping for non-fiction reading material.
Art by Chris Rogers
I went total ADD on this book for nearly every page. Every time Duarte made an appearance I found myself humming “Don’t cry for me Argentina” until I distracted myself out of the story yet again. Like Ruell, I was feeling all sparky and in need of a host to anchor myself. I say it’s brilliant because I think there are a lot of discussion opportunities within its pages, both for reading groups and classrooms. It felt like reading Kurt Vonneget for school with a little Nelson DeMille splashed on top.
I think it would make an excellent film if someone could write a worthy screenplay, but the story should be guarded protectively lest someone come and make a shotty job of it. (Think of how many ways Ender’s Game could have been ruined if someone other than Gavin Hood had tackled it.) Please give Emissary a go… then come back and discuss! Also stay tuned for an interview with the author.
And When I Think, I Fall Asleep
Title: One Hundred Years of Solitude
Author: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Genre: Fiction/ Literature
Length: 458 pages
When I was a kid I had a poster of a chimpanzee on my wall. Underneath in a font that was surely intended to motivate a young mind it said: “When I Work, I Work Hard. When I Play, I Play Hard. But When I Think, I Fall Asleep.” The monkey had his chin resting in his human-like hand, eyes drooped down.
Although I’ve read more books that my norm this year, I’ve just *mostly* finished my 93rd title, it’s been a lot of fluff. It’s been a lot of things that digest easily and go down like lemonade on a hot summer day, or cooled hot cocoa in winter. The heavier stuff that I tend to enjoy has bored me. I’m too tired for all this thinking. My energies are spent writing. I want to just download books into my head, Matrix style, when I sit down to read.
One Hundred Years of Solitude has been sitting on my shelf radiating all this promise for years. I’ve put it off because it was going to blow my mind. It was going to be too wonderful for words. Then, when the words came, it was supposed to be the most intelligent thing that had ever come from my mouth – or been typed by my fingers. Because it’s Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Because Garcia is wonderful. Because this is his magnum opus.
I was bored.
There’s a lot to take in. There’s a lot to quote. I could never write anything so wonderful in all my life.
But around page 300 out of the 458 pages, I caught myself skimming. The drama was annoying me. The people were unfriendly. I couldn’t relate to anyone, nor did I want to. This probably says more about my mood than anything else, but I started flicking through the pages speed reading to a level that even I know I’m not really reading anymore.
“Not finishing a book that doesn’t move you is a sign of reading maturity,” I just told a co-worker at the bookstore tonight. “It’s knowing that there are so many wonderful things out there that you shouldn’t waste your time with things that aren’t wonderful.” I waste my time with things that aren’t wonderful all the time. Even more so, I waste my time with things that are wonderful even if I’m not feeling wonder at them at all, I’m just reading it because I’m supposed to feel awed.
Around page 370 or so, I took a deep breath, skipped to the last chapter and read it. Yes, I skipped pages. Lots of them. And just read the end. I still started nodding off. I’m not even that tired (ok, I am that tired, but good books are supposed to keep you awake!), just that unmoved by this family and their crap. Sadly, I didn’t feel like I missed anything at all. I was just relieved that it was over, that I was going to mark this one off my list. Then, I felt the annoyance of the knowledge that I was not going to write my one solid literary essay of the year, at least not on this book. (Once a year or so, I write an essay. A proper one, as though I’m still in school. It’s lame. And nerdy. But I feel like I have to do this to stay in practice. You know, in case I ever go back. They get worse every year. I’ve stopped sharing them. Now, it looks like I’ve even stopped writing them.)
I’m further annoyed that this is a favorite book of my best friend. I hate that I can’t share that with her.
Maybe I’ll read those pages I skipped one day. Maybe. For now, I’ll admit defeat and enjoy my sleep.
Angela is super sorry and she begs for your forgiveness!
Title: Roomies
Author: Lindy Zart
Genre: Contemporary Romance (Clean)
Format: Kindle Ebook
I downloaded this ebook because I, too, have a story I’ve written about roommates. Mine is incomplete, along a similar vein, but very different. I was curious. Also, there was a reviewer (Angela) who hadn’t participated in a blog tour (I think) the way they were supposed to and remembered at the last minute. This blogger begged the internet to go apologize on Lindy Zart’s facebook page, I found that endearing and hilarious. I know what it’s like to fill your plate with piles of review copies and promises and then find yourself in a serious time crunch. And we do all this because we love you guys, indie authors and publishers, and I am one of you guys, and the goal is to offer as much support as possible, but sometimes we get a little overzealous in our passions. Then all the passions throw a temper tantrum, stomp their feet, and throw a calender at your head. Figuratively, of course. Really we just sit their dumbfounded and think, “Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.”
Rather than wait to see if I won a giveaway, I took a $3 chance on an ebook of an unknown author. I highly recommend taking those chances as often as it moves you.
Zart’s romance is written much like the style of John Green’s A Fault in Our Stars, but reminded me more of Caprice Crane. Honestly, it’s got that snarky sarcasm. It’s also sweet and sappy in all the right places, along with a little real world mixed in with the overly sentimental. It’s funny. It would make a blockbuster hit, if it were filmed just right – I’d hold back a little on some of the soliloquies, but who am I to talk – I love a good soliloquy.
I read half the book, took a nap and walked the dogs, then read the other half. It was nice. It’s an easy breezy comedy and I found myself chuckling often at the narrator. All the characters are appropriately dense about their feelings and that of others, while sharply noticing things about the people just outside their inner circle… isn’t that how it always is in real life?
If you’re a parent that doesn’t mind innuendos and cursing, I’d recommend it to older teenagers. The story itself is cleanly written and everything remains in innuendo and summary – no quivering members or moist anythings – thank goodness.
Murder Past Due Times TWO!
I seriously read these books just so I could use that headline. I know, so cheesy, but it’s the little things in life…
Well, that’s not entirely true. I picked them both up at various times, years ago when I first got hung up on cozy mysteries. It wasn’t until I was moving that I put reading all my paperbacks on my TBR priority list so I can purge them. Only prime keepers are going to the new house once it is built. While unpacking paperbacks in my temporary abode I discovered this little coincidence and my very silly self immediately thought in rhyme. Naturally, I had to read them right away. (Or as right away as one can when one reads books for part of my living.)
I shall preface by saying: both were appropriately cute. Meredith, however, has a writing style that puts her a cut above the rest in the genre and I can’t wait to read more of her series.
I read through her book in nearly one sitting. Despite it being the third in the series, I didn’t feel like I had missed a beat, though I felt like I should surely go back and read the others as soon as possible.
The Cat in the Stacks series is fun, but I’ll probably just happen across them as I happen across them, rather than purposefully seek them out. Although, I did appreciate that I had indeed
selected the first of that series. It is always nice to begin at, well, the beginning.
Both books were set in the south, which naturally made them fun for me. Meredith’s is actually set in Texas, however, and James’ is set in Mississippi with only a few references to Houston. I absolutely adored Meredith’s Ryan character and found him incredibly endearing, where James won me over by introducing me to a breed of cat I’d never heard of – a Maine Coon.
I will always choose books that lend themselves to wanting to read more books. Books on books are my favorites. Novels set in literary settings, a close second. Libraries, bookstores, reading groups, these are the places that keep my heart at rest – even if we have to kill someone off to maintain a plot line and a reason for being there in the first place. So whether it is sooner or later, I’ll return to both of these writers eventually.
End note: I like this Miranda James cover better…
The Fault in Our Stars
Title: The Fault in Our Stars
Author: John Green
Genre: Teen Fiction
Length: 318 pages
I was told not to bother reading this book. It is predictable. It is overly sentimental. It is both those things, but it what telling you that does not include is how adorably witty the banter and narrative are. The characters are clever, and fun, and teenagers, despite their cancer – and this reminds you that even the sick are human, even the terminal have personalities outside their prognosis.
I read the book in one sitting.
I enjoyed every page.
Peter Van Houten was a nice touch – and if you don’t know what that means, I suggest you read the book. No skipping to the movie. Read the book, it’s a quick, smooth read, that may remind you of people you’ve lost. After all, we all have roughly 14.
E. Michael Helms Does It Again
Title:Deadly Catch
Author: E. Michael Helms
Genre: Mystery
Length: 207 pages
I always have fun reading an E. Michael Helms novel – but this latest one was by far the most fast paced. MacArthur McClellan is clever, well-trained, and his personality is as snugly as a bear. I enjoyed tromping through crime scenes and fishing sites with him and his side kick Just Kate Bell.
Although I’m pro-legalization of marijuana and found myself rolling my eyes at some of the locals when they discovered someone “they thought they knew” smoke marijuana or ate a marijuana brownie, the story was filled with all sorts of memorable characters and crazies.
The bookstore I work out of most often is near an international airport. I find myself selling flight reads more often than not. I highly recommend this for a quick domestic flight. I also think it would behoove the airport bookstores to carry it in stacks.
I also really liked the character of Bocephus Pickron, especially his first name. I can’t discuss my thoughts on him further without giving away too many spoilers. I’m looking forward to seeing what investigations Mac will stumble into next and wonder how many of these weekend mysteries Helms has in his back pocket. I think he could write Mac mysteries for years… I’d read them.
Anakalian Whims 