I just finished reading Shock Wave by John Sandford. While it's a little weaker than his outstanding Prey series, Virgil Flowers is always fun to visit. He's so male..technically irreverent, yet talks to God all the time. He never misses a chance to admire a woman's assets, but doesn't denigrate the species. I guess I like him because he's honest and with the story primarily told in third person omnicient, you always know where everybody is coming from. I know what to expect from Virgil and he doesn't have hidden agendas, even if the other characters might.
I've started Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen, which is a little syrupy after Shock Wave. Probably my comfort zone is in knowing the characters I'm reading, which keeps me with the writers I enjoy so much. So this new one is like going on a trip to Europe, not knowing if I'm walking into a third world country at every turn. Do ya think I'm a control freak?
Meanwhile, I started The Paris Wife by Paula McLain a while back and probably will go back to it soon. I sampled it through Kindle, ran out and debated following through. The story is about Ernest Hemingway's first wife, a fictional story based on fact, but doesn't read quite like a typical historical fiction. It's more like a third party follows them around and tells what happens, so it reads easy. Analyzing why I stopped in mid stream, I probably did that because of my comfort zone issue (see above). I get the feeling it's all going to go down hill from where it is now. Hemingway was a pretty chaotic fellow. And I'm a sucker for good endings. You'd think I would have figured that out with the title.
I'm getting prodded into reading Bottom Dwellers, which I bought for my grandson because it's Sci Fi. It's supposed to have a conceptually believable premise, so maybe I'll expand my comfort zone horizon. I don't think Thad started it yet anyway. He's been writing an excellent paper on Violins for school. He has played violin since he had to use a tiny one, and I had no idea he knew so much about each part of the instrument. I never knew anything about the piano I played as a child except how to hit the right keys. Kids these days know so much more about the world they live in. I hope that's a good thing. I don't really reject learning, but sometimes I think I might know more than I should to live a peaceful life.
My new short story is going to be California Gold, which has been gliding around my brain for a couple of weeks now. I just haven't been able to get to it yet.
I'm going to leave today with a poem. I'm a closet poet and have a couple hundred of them lurking in a book in my office.
This one is called The Courtier
Frangipani flowers lined his lacy fragrant bower
where legend blended rhapsody with motive and desire.
Yet his very froggy presence was bulbous, green and wet,
imbused with a fixation that he seldom could forget.
Residing deep inside of him, so handsome, tall and strong
a manifested courtier was imprisoned in that frog.
Limited to crooning love in two-note lullabies
aesthetically impeded more his wish to womanize.
Romanching frogs on a great scale, with ribbons instead of hair
presumed no metamorphosis would attract a debonair
princess, queen or sorceress of expanded dialogue
who would ever see a princely form within that lumpy frog.