I have finally, FINALLY, after re-registering and de-registering and trying to remember passwords and whatever fake answers I gave to prompt questions, gotten books I checked out of the Army Intarnets Liberry, onto my magic reading tablet.
If I did it more often than once every six months, it wouldn’t be such a trial, NOW WOULD IT.
Now I have nine days to read three books.
Not a problem. I have nearly that long playing Kevin McAllister and I polished off half of the Frank Bruni last night. Like really good leftovers in the fridge, I doubt it will make it through the rest of the day.
And yes. They’re all memoirs and biographies (Food critic, Beatrix Potter, and a gal who moved to France). I will put some challenge books on this year’s list, I will. I just..with the exception of James and his Peach and Horace in Downtown Owl and Harry sometimes, I just need the people I care about to be real.
Fine. I’ll do a fiction next.
(And another thing about this fiction, librarian friends, by author? That’s really the sorting we’re going with? That’s some nonsense. The alphabet is a completely arbitrary taxonomy of random shapes and the realm of fiction is vast. I mean I could just do this, but really? Your Nicholas Sparks and your— WAIT.
Pause for this. Heh. “It’s like this guy only know one possible bad thing that could happen to people.”
And we all know where he learned his complicated theories on gender…
The point is, and I clearly don’t have one, is that all fiction is not created equally, sorting it by the author’s last name — who isn’t even a character in the book — is silly, and Nooks are hard.)
Okay. If you need me, I’ll be reading.
