Yesterday afternoon it became clear that having the kids home for the last week (winter break) had sent the few marbles I had left skittering under the futon. A trip to Borders in the Big City was in order. (We have a B&N in the Big Big City, but the last time I was there they had no EC books, so fuggedaboudit. They did, however, have a frighteningly large selection of self-help books. No more trips to that city.)
So we walk into Borders and my mind goes totally blank. Totally. I cannot think of a single book I want to buy. I have post-its and scraps of paper all over my house with book titles and release dates on them, but they never seem to make it into my purse. I stick things into my amazon wishlist sometimes, but I really, really love brick and mortar bookstores the best. They’re not the magical little bookstores of my youth, but it’s a big-ass building full of books and coffee and there’s not much better than that. And regardless of the ease of online shopping, spending two or three hours browsing through a bookstore is a pleasure I’m proud to have passed on to my boys. (My husband usually makes the mistake of sitting down in a chair with a Hemmings and falling asleep, only to be shocked that it’s full dark when we finally leave.)
I usually head straight to the magazine racks for my RT, but I subscribed to that. Instead I’m left wracking my brain, trying to think of a single book I’m looking for. I want When Good Things Happen to Bad Boys, so I go hunting for that with no luck. (The post-it note on my board clearly says April, but again—those little suckers just won’t walk themselves into my purse.)
So I ask myself “What has Angie read lately?”
Working for the Devil by Lilith Saintcrow comes to mind. I’ve seen her name around the ‘net and I remember Angie being willing to bear children for somebody to get her hands on the sequel. I’ve rarely—if ever—been steered wrong by Angie, so I grab it (and finally the new Nickelback CD).
Big mistake. Big.
It’s been my experience as a writer that once in a while a book comes along that makes you throw in the towel. A book so good, so fresh, so freakin’ good that the Muse just curls up in a sniveling ball of inadequacy and you start thinking about how nice it would be to work at McDonald’s. You make more money, get paid in accordance to the number of hours you actually put in, you don’t get form letters if the fries aren’t quite right, and nobody gives a shit if the pickles are passive.
This book is that good—don’t miss it. Just be prepared to coax your Muse out of hiding with a lot of Godiva if you’re a writer.