Twelve thousand monkeys with typewriters...

It's a new year, and nothing crappy has happened yet.

I thought I would have posted before this, like on New Year's Day maybe, but instead I've been sucked in (or suckered in) to the Twilight series -- which despite not being very good and in fact incredibly irritating, is also addictive and I can't escape until I finish all four books. Have they figured out a way to infuse the pages of the actual book with crack? It's the only thing that would explain it.

Can I vent for a moment regarding the extreme lack of patience I have with the ubiquitous practice of taking multiple pages in any sequel to explain what happened in the previous books? Look, I know that some people have short term memory loss, and other people are idiot enough to buy the fourth book in a series without reading the other three first, but it just makes me want to scream when someone has to waste valuable page space by explaining for the umpteenth time why X did Y to Z.

Anyhoo...

However, all of this irritation does mean that I have even more incentive to finish my damn book this year, though not containing vampires and werewolves and not being marketed to hormonal teenage girls it probably won't shoot to the top of the bestseller list immediately (or ever).

On the bright side, I also read (finally) the last two Meredith Gentry books...aaaahhh, I am very very pleased. Life is good. Laurell K. Hamilton writes really, really good sex. I think perhaps she would have many many points in the quiz I mentioned in a previous post. Did I mention that she writes good sex? Better than Anne Rice - a worthy role model.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go draw a bath, pour a glass of wine, and see if I can get through a few more hundred pages of Bella without wanting to kill her myself -- the reading equivalent of binge drinking with Bartles & James: can't seem to stop, tastes like candy, but will hate myself in the morning and have to self-medicate with Faulkner or Vonnegut.