book slump....here battah battah....
All right, I am in a book slump. Help me.
I started Philip Roth's Plot Against America, which Gina assures me is worth it, but I am still not so riveted. Not that I don't trust you, dear...
I am halfway thru the 3rd Laurie King/Mary Russell mystery, and while it's as charming and compelling as ever, I don't want to OD on Laurie King and totally spoil a good thing, like I did with FiveStar bars. (Although the round of stomach flu that hit me the morning after I ate two peanut butter ones probably has something to do with that too). Also the reason I bought the second Kate Martinelli mystery but haven't started it.
I got Gregory Maguire's Wicked out of the library, but at the same time I bought a used copy of Patrick Suskind's Perfume, which is what I really wanted to start but I have library books that have to go back first, so I feel like they should be read first.
So I am skimming through Ken Kamler's book about extreme doctoring (in extreme places, like Everest and the Amazon, not like doctoring with a shortage of anesthesia or anything) for lack of any more compelling reasons to read something else. I need the equivalent of Neutrogena shampoo for my brain - you know, the shampoo that strips off the residue from all the other shampoo you use?
posted by BabelBabe @ 1:43 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
First of all, is it really called Extreme Doctoring? Because I don't know what to say to that.
Second, I like the idea of Neutrogena clarifying shampoo for the brain. (However, be aware that PETA hates Neutrogena.)
I may have mentioned this before, but whenever I get into a book funk, I reread something I love. Anne of Green Gables cleanses the palet. A Wrinkle in Time makes me feel like I'm clean somehow, and full of potential goodness. Jane Eyre makes me feel like my life isn't so bad, and neither are men. I Capture the Castle makes me feel like I have a really smart secret friend. David Sedaris makes me laugh.
Okay, you get the picture.
I just started Andrian Nicole LaBlanc's book about the crazy family in the Bronx . . . WHY can't I remember the title? It's a compelling and awful and sad portrayal of the Americans no one ever wants to show you because they aren't rich and pretty and white (or Cosby-fied).
The thing is, the situations are SO awful and sad that I don't think I want to keep reading. I feel miserable enough--and guilty because WHY should I feel miserable when my life is so much easier than theirs--that the whole thing just makes me feel like crap.
What I wound up doing is finishing all my half-read books (with the exception of the Roth which I will borrow from you at a later date, Gina) so I can start something new. Probably Wicked, since it's a library book. Or I may just devote the weekend to Mimi Smartypants.
Right now I need to drag my sorry ass into the shower and poke, prod, and cajole the kids into getting dressed so we can go spend the morning at the Children's Museum. I feel like hell but calling out just doesn't seem to be an option:
"Hi, Si? Jude? Mama's not feeling well and won't be in today. OK, thanks. See you Monday."
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