My dad says, “you should read this book.”
I say, “Um, someday, maybe.”
My dad says, “No, really, you should read this book.” And then he delivers the paperback to me.
I think, “Okay, someday, maybe.”
But I’ve heard about this book.
Me + graphic violence = ha, ha, not so much.
Me + realistic rape depictions = I have better things to do with my life.
But today, my anxiety is skyrocketing, so high that if there were an Olympics for anxiety, I’d be a gold medal contender. (Short version: kitchen repairs, broken granite, strangers in my house, etc.) I am desperate for the drug that will take me out of my current state of being and it doesn’t exist, so okay, yes, fiction.
70 pages in, oof, this book is boring, is it ever going anywhere?
120 pages in, I think I’m finally starting to get a fix on all the characters.
200 pages in, wow, I love this woman. She’s so … analytical. It’s not that she’s cold, it’s that she’s thoughtful. But without a full world view. Sheltered, in a crazy sort of way.
336 pages in, yep, I’m apparently staying up all night, because I am pretty sure I am not sleeping until I understand who did it, why, and how. ARGH!
Writing lesson? The good mystery at the beginning — who sends these pictures? — is an excellent trap for the reader.
And now, sorry, I have to go back to reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, with the full understanding that everyone else in the world has read it already. But if you haven’t, you should!