There hasn't been a piece of fiction I'm actively interested in, or one I'd been on the waiting list for, since the beginning of the month. I wander around the public library hoping for inspiration. Nope. I check my online record about thirty times a day in case any of my requests have come in. Hope? Nope. So in the mystery realm I read things that aren't even what P.W. used to call "acceptable material"; some of them so awful I'll never admit I'm reading them.
Meanwhile there are several non-fiction books in hand. I had to return The Great Warming unread, as people were waiting for it and it couldn't be renewed; and I'd gotten stubborn about finishing John Leland's little Kerouac book. One person waiting for the whale song book, so I'm working on that one next.
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