Crazy busy days lately, at work, at home. I’m having company for dinner tomorrow night and have spent the day cleaning and organizing. We’re doing a low country boil and it should be fun. Shrimp and sausage and halibut and potatoes and onions and spicy crab boil seasoning. I won’t be able to have any beer with that, which is a great pity, as the only weekend we could all get together was the weekend before an important (but routine) blood test and I’ve given up sugar in all forms.
But none of that is the subject of this post or why I felt compelled to sit down a half hour before midnight to put it down. I haven’t had much time to blog lately and there’s a build up of effluvia. I was afraid if I didn’t take a moment now, some vitally important inane information might be lost to history. So, here it is: what I’m done with is not housekeeping or cooking, it’s Laurell K. Hamilton.
I hadn’t read anything by her in a long time, but I found myself curious to see what was up with her. The last Anita Blake book I read actually had some semblance of a plot, contrary to several of the ones that had come before. I mean, a plot having more to do with being “forced” to have sex with dozens of men and endless discussions amongst the characters as to what had just happened, why it had happened, and why the sexcapades were totally, completely against her real true morality, but she couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t help it. At heart, she was really a “good girl.”
Uh, anyway, I stuck with LKH a lot longer than I should have, though most of my friends had given up on her, mostly because of the not-Anita characters. I really loved some of them and wanted to know what was going on with them, although most of the ones I really liked got short shrift in the cavalcade of porn the books had become. I’m stubborn, I guess. So I picked up Blood Noir last night and decided I’d wallow in it, to see if that promise of actual plot in The Harlequin meant LKH was finally snapping out of her narrow focus. The first several chapters were an extended sex scene between Anita and two guys, plus endless discussions of what had just happened, why it had happened, and why the sexcapades were totally, completely against her real true morality, but she couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t help it. At heart, she was really a “good girl.”
And I realized that I really no longer gave a damn about any of those characters. Finding out what might be going on with them was no longer worth slogging through the slush these books have become. I like me a good sex scene, have no trouble walking on the pervy side, but I do prefer to have my sexy fiction have some actual fiction in it to go along with the ol’ boogaloo.
I moved consequently LKH’s books from the TBR pile to the recycle pile. I don’t think they’ll be wending their way back out again.
And no telling when I may get to set down more inane content again. Watch this space.