I lament the current state of publishing every time I try to find a book to buy.
Every book I pick up is about serial killers.
Or disaffected FBI agents.
Or FBI agents dating disaffected serial killers.*
When a title intrigues me, I pick the book up.
If the first line of the jacket copy begins, “The bodies were all found with . . . “* I put that book right back down.
Then, I remembered where all the good books are.
I picked up John Steinbeck's, Travels with Charley, and the writing was so beautiful, it almost made me cry.
Of course, with Steinbeck, one must prepare to have one’s heart broken, but I believe that is better than wading through a description of the chambers of the heart as they bleed out in the dust by yet another unrepentant serial killer.*
Now, I’m rereading Cannery Row. I’m keeping my hankie close.
* And now, every other book is about vampires. I don't get that at all.
*”… inscribed on the inner thigh, the name of the agent responsible for foisting all those serial killer books upon us.”
* Okay, except Dexter. Those books are brilliant.