Enough bitching. As I was saying (or was going to say), historical mysteries are wonderful. Or at least the well-written ones are. Tasha Alexander's And Only to Deceive is so good so far, which is about a hundred pages in. It's breaking my heart also; a widow who didn't really know her late husband is now finding out that he loved her enough to have Renoir paint her portrait, actually loved her the first time he first saw her. God. Talk about regrets. This is the first book in a series and I am very interested to see what will happen later. Duh.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Lately I have been obsessed with historical fiction. Romances, in particular, but now I think I am embarking on a whole new ball of yarn? Wax? Whatever the proper phrase may be, I have Julia Quinn to blame. And Deanna Raybourn as well. Reading Silent in the Grave last weekend has led me to Tasha Alexander, C. S. Harris, and Rhys Bowen, for starters. Not only am I combining the fabulousness of the time period, but add some romance and a murder mystery and presto, fantabulous fiction. I wanted to start Silent in the Sanctuary as soon as I got my grubby hands on it, but it isn't going to happen until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. When I sit down to read that book, I don't want to be bothered. I want a solid chunk of hours in which I can sit on my ass and do nothing but immerse myself in a book. I hate the telephone. Having to put down my book and do things like cook dinner, let the cat in or even pee pisses me off. So Sanctuary will have to wait because I babysit my nephew tomorrow (I adore him) and I can't start it tonight because there is no way I will finish it by the time I have to go to bed and I certainly won't be able to sleep with it unfinished in my mind.