October 25th, 2012
If you follow me on Twitter, you may or may not know that I’ve been reading the Night Circus and it’s just . . . not going well. I WANT it to go well, but it’s not going well, and that’s likely because by the time I hop in bed to read, my eyes are at half mast and I’m just trying to figure out what in Sam Hill is happening, not whether the ice crystals formed in the shape of a million sparkling concentric circles. I don’t have it in me to FEEL the ice crystals, I just want to know whether they fell on someone’s head.
This, as you might imagine, is making me feel colossally stupid. It’s a book, for fuck’s sake. I am nothing if not a consummate reader. I’ve read forty-something books this year! Including . . . okay, including basically every awful romance there is out there. Every. Last. One. Oh, were you wondering how that weird book with the guy in leather pants ended? They had sex on some kind of weird sling and he asked her to marry him while she was in the sling. The end. Oh, wait, she may have been wearing a corset. Details! Who needs ‘em?
It’s been like The Year of Book Candy, and oh my God, the covers on these books are so TERRIBLY FILTHY sometimes, and I’m sure you can imagine I am not what you would call a prude. That does not, however, mean that I am not horribly embarrassed when my 16-year-old nephew friends me on Goodreads, because come on. Sure, kid, read my blog, check my twitter stream, but FOR THE LOVE, DO NOT LOOK AT THE FILTH I HAVE READ THIS YEAR. ABORT ABORT.
(Side note: Alex was born on his birthday. I love that. Allie and Marco! SIXTEEN YEARS APART, dear crap. I find this remarkably depressing, since my sister and I are twelve years apart, and I thought she was getting up in years when she had HER kids — sorry Ann, I was young and dumb — but OH HO NO, I was/am even older. Oh dear. But anyway: same birthday! Adorable. Too bad he’s a surly teen who could not care less right now, but I still love him so much.)
(Sunrise! Sunset. Sunriiiise! Sunset.)
ANYWAY, back to the romance novels. Commenter J left this on my post from the other day, and I neeeeeeed y’all to read it, and then do what I did, which is spend a lot of time Googling Elon Musk and his ex-wife and then, people of the romance novels, TELL ME if you don’t see this as a much more realistic portrayal than that of the billionaire rushing the heroine off to an island in the Bahamas for some quality time on a sex swing, AM I RIGHT?
I mean, she dates a really creepy aggressive guy (he informed her he was the alpha on her wedding day AND THEN LATER told her she was being “manipulative” for mourning their son lost to SIDS, I mean, COME ON), then they get a divorce because he wants her thinner, blonder, more hostess-y and I just . . . well, then. He’s now married to a 23-year-old. (HOLY UPDATE THEY ARE DIVORCED.) Quelle surprise. HE IS ALSO NOT EVEN THAT HOT. I’m not sure billions would be worth having crappy sex with an unattractive dude, but you know, maybe if I’d been in my twenties, I’d be all, TRY ME, EM EFFERS.
I’m not so sure, however. This all goes back to being average, I guess.
Anyway, the point is, I’m reading the Night Circus, and it’s the kind of book I think I would EAT ON A HAM SANDWICH if I weren’t so damned tired all the time. Either that, or I am systematically leaking brain cells, and it’s driving me crazy. Three weeks. Three weeks of reading, and I’m at 40%. THREE. WEEKS. Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale is a fracking TOUCHSTONE for me. Why so hard, Night Circus? Why can’t I remember one person to the next?
Is it because no one is wearing BDSM leathers? (Side note: I get it, I respect it, I am DOWN with it, if this is your thing, but no, I’m not sure I have it in me to be patient enough for someone to . . . get into costume before sex. I can’t even finish the Night Circus, do you think I have time for you to GO GET YOUR LEATHER PANTS AND DOM CAP?)
I have gone too far here, clearly. Point being: I need some more time to read. Also, better book choices. And finally: seriously, read that Elon Musk article and see if you EVER read a cheap romance/billionaire/Fifty Shades the same way again, and not just because you’re picturing Elon Musk and his little monkey face.
Romance novels: I have found the cure.
Entry Filed under: Books