I stated that I read a Tree Grows in Brooklyn because I thought I should. I read a lot of books because I think I should, but I don't want you to think less of me. I have found generally that "classics" are pretty good. Knowing this, I try not to limit myself to historical fiction although it really is my first love.

To combat my classic literature issue, I have an excellent friend, Stimey who has oodles of books in her basement (I know, not the smartest place to store your best paper treasures). I often leave her house with a stack of books that are totally outside my normal range. I have even enjoyed a zombie book. I still haven't admitted to her how very much I enjoyed reading the very silly World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks. Now though, I totally know all about zombies. They are not aliens.

I am also not normally a Michael Crichton reader but I liked The Andromeda Strain. She said I would, and she was right. On the flip side, she also loves Kurt Vonnegut. Passionately. Not me. I read Slaughterhouse Five because she said to, and it was really not my favorite. Right now Catch 22 and 1984 are in my Stimey stack, I'll let you know how they go.

Here's the point. It's sometimes a challenge for people to know where to begin when selecting books, and I go by the advice of others as well as working my way through a lengthy list of accepted classics. My friend Stimey has greatly expanded my range over the past five years and I got her to at least begin Anne of Green Gables. Quitter. Well written books make for pretty good reading, no matter the genre. Good science fiction can be good reading whether it is your preferred subject matter or not. Just the same, I abhor badly researched historical fiction. Yuck. Get your period fashion and manners correct people.

Of course, I cannot claim to like all "great books" Despite the title of this blog and all the excellent Scarlet Letter implications, I am not a fan. I love adultery, and fornication, and public humiliation, and self imposed punishments, but woof. Hester Prynne was drowned for me by too many words. I had to slog through tons of poetic prose to find the point. Same goes for Moby Dick. My mother claims it is one of her favorites and I generally trust her but again, woof. You don't get to meet Ahab for several hundred pages. With my apologies to Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Melville, get to the damn point gentlemen. Ridiculous verbosity is ridiculous verbosity whether you have a compelling tale to tell or no. And with that, I bid you a good day.