Blogs have apparently become a bit of a source for Entertainment Weekly. The last issue I perused actually had a whole sidebar squib devoted to the fruits of the PODdy Mouth blog. Ms. Mouth has created a niche for herself by reviewing Publish On Demand titles. (Todd A.! Paging Todd A.!)
She sports a whole list of worthy POD titles. It's exciting. This is the type of stuff that is going to revolutionise the way readers access books. Hopefully. And it looks like I may have a few to add to my list.
Anyway, I'm in the middle of a big ol' Irish reading kick (which does not, I repeat not extend to James Joyce) and have just started Frank Delany's Ireland, which so far I can recommend. It's one of those books where the words wash over you in a blanket of atmosphere, and the stories are so well-crafted it makes me ashamed to think I call myself a writer. I highly recommend it. For now. Maybe by the time I finish it, I'll have changed my mind. (That's been known to happen.)
There is a book I haven't finished, and it pains me to say so. The book that everyone called "The book of the summer", that Stephen King praised with glowing words in Entertainment Weekly. (Another aside....Perhaps I'm too plebian in take reading recommends from EW. I think I should be more erudite and pull titles down from the NYRB or some such. I do, I do. But I don't have a copy of NYRB or PQ in the bathroom. Hence all the EW stuff. Besides, those books are still good.) Anyway. This book I can't finish.
Scott Smith's The Ruins.
Don't get me wrong. It's well-written. Compellingly so. And the jacket features King's effusive glow of a blurb, as well as enthusiastic praise and encouragement for all those Lost fans out there. You know..."If you enjoy TV's Lost, you'll like this bloodbath of a book!!!" Because that is what this thing is. A bloodbath. A gruesome, bleak and macabre descent into the basest nature of humanity. And since I myself was being cut open I figured I'd table it for another time. Hubby went ahead and finished it, and can only shake his head with a grim smile when I ask him if it "gets any more gruesome" than where I left off. That right there tells me to stick with my Eireann fairy stories for awhile longer.
Next on my list, hopefully, is The Book About Blanche And Marie, which novelises the two paralell stories of Marie Curie--you know her--and Blanche Whitman. BW was well-known as the Hysterical Woman, who was intimately poked and prodded repeatedly in the public venue by scientists searching for the cause and cure of "hysteria". She later worked for Curie. The ultimate irony is that while she found intellectual respect in Curie's lab, she ended up losing three limbs to radiation posoining. Decidedly not a "summer read", but since summer seems to be packing up, I'll get to it soon enough.
Anyone else have any ideas on what I should read?