This is the fourth post in “A Month of Reading“
December fourth. Well, dear readers, we’ve already hit it. The first day of a daily blog challenge that I set for myself that I almost skipped, and it’s only Day 4.
It’s been quite a day – lots of running around, parenting, and more parenting. My 7-year-old passed his karate belt test today (he’s up to orange!) and my 5-year-old was banned from watching TV because, well, he’s been a real brat lately, and I’m trying to condition him to not act that way. As such, I spent a lot more quality time with him. Huh. Funny how that works.
I read him a book about two brother penguins called “Flip and Flop.” I read the actual printed directions to Candy Land. And last night I started reading a novel titled “Nightfall,” by Nelson DeMille.
For this I blame my mother and Cheryl Strayed. My mother because she left the thick paperback at my house after she visited. I scooped it up and put it in the pile for my mother in law, because it looks exactly like the thick mystery novels she loves. Which I do NOT love. No, I am a snob about books, in more than one way. First, I judge books by their cover. Sort of a shallow snobassery, but I am definitely guilty. Those thick paperbacks with the sensationalist all caps titles have usually disappointed me, so I assume they are all empty volumes of overused phrases and poorly formed character arcs. Second, I am a glutton for punishment. If I start a book, I have to finish it, or the book stares at me from its resting place until I conquer what I obviously do not want to read within. (Note to self, I can tell you which books are staring at me all over my house, the ones that are half or less than half read, in a future post within this little challenge.)
I also blame Cheryl Strayed because in wild, she accepted the gift of a James Michener book from a stranger along her journey, and tells the story about how her mother had loved James Michener, but then in college she herself was told that Michener didn’t write true literature, and so she had great disdain for Michener for the rest of her mother’s life, but after her mother died she felt bad and wished she hadn’t dissed her mother’s love of Michener, and so she read the book again while she hiked the PCT and realize she really did like Michener.
Sigh.
So I gave DeMille a chance. I was instantly disappointed, but sometimes I need easy, mind-numbing distraction from life while I am relaxing in my bed before I am sleepy enough to close my eyes, and I’m two chapters in, so it’s pretty much a done deal.
NB: My mother reads lots of great books. Let’s not judge her by the cover of Nightfall. She’s awesome in every way.
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