I'm reading a mystery

and an ancient wodehouse and a historical from the 80s and I have absolutely nothing to say about any of them. Usually I'd have an opinion. . . ok, wait, I do. The mystery, by Julia Spencer-Fleming, is the sixth in a series and I haven't read any of the others. I'm getting back story in a perfectly natural way, no big info dumps. People who can write series like that -- series in which readers can pick up any book and not feel lost -- those writers deserve some kind of prize. It's too early to wake up and I'd like to fall back asleep...and the best way for that might be to mentally design this prize. Maybe a stretch of road would work.

I've gotten a couple of letters about my bad reviews and I want to buy those note-writing people lunch or at least a cuppa. (One reader pointed out that the book seems to promise some hot bro on bro sex, or at least tension, and those guys barely hug.) I also want to beg the note-writers to leave reviews, but I have some dignity.

No, not dignity--let's call it cowardice. It is possible to keep getting bad reviews after all. Whimper.


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