As you know, Bob, you like to read

I'm reading Five Odd Honors, the last book in Jane Lindskold's latest trilogy which started with Thirteen Orphans, and am distressed. The entire series has needed tightening, writing-wise--way too much chattiness and wishy-washyness of word choice and as-you-know-Bob-itis. I feel certain that the phrase "or whatever" should not appear nearly so much in fiction as it does in real life, especially when not in dialogue. Now in the third book, there's an as-you-know-Bob of such proportions that we've actually got one character telling a second character about the events in that second character's history. And it's not as if the second character has amnesia or anything. He was there, and he remembers. And we already got this information in a previous book. I can think of at least two other ways this could have been handled. I've been extremely fond of Jane Lindskold's books up until now, and so I'm deeply distressed by this. (There was also the issue early in the first book of a character saying she knew instantly that a particular person was Chinese, and then went on to describe his clothes and said she couldn't see his face--but that could have been the character's own problems, of which she had many.) I'm still interested in the story, and I'll still buy her next book, but I'm going to be a lot more wary about it, and that saddens me.

Nursing gives me a ton of time for reading...or would if I didn't have a toddler trying to climb up my knees all the time...which is one of its few advantages. For me, I mean. I've gotten through a bunch of books of Eric's, and several new ones of my own. I'm finding it difficult to get through the nonfiction reading I want to finish, though. I think it's because fiction is comfort reading for me, and the newborn months require a lot of comforting. I feel like a bit of a wuss, but that's the way it is. I also feel a bit like Rory from "Gilmore Girls," in that I have three or four books open at any given time now. Right now there's Women and Gender in Islam in the nursery, and Mirage (about Napoleon's expedition to Egypt) in the bathroom, and Five Odd Honors floating. Perhaps my real problem is that I don't like to focus.

Harry Potter, and no, no spoilers

Eric and I went to the Borders Harry Potter party last night, where we witnessed some excellent costumes, overheard a girl sell her number to a boy for $23, and waited two hours to get a book because we had not picked up a color-coded bracelet. The manager shouted "Want to know the ending?" and got a round of "No!" back, and Eric and I discussed whether the manager would leave the store alive if he went through with this threat while reading the other books we were picking up while waiting. ($80 at the bookstore. It's a good thing it's not closer.)

This morning we read it, together, lying on the spare bed mostly. I read faster than he does. It was a lot of fun being able to react to text with someone, even if I had to hold my reactions a few seconds until he caught up to the place I wanted to gasp or laugh or exclaim at. It was a very good book, and satisfying in its tying up of loose ends. We consulted previous books four or five times about things that had been mentioned coming back. My head hurts now, but it was worth it. And now I can go and read the Internet and other media without fear.

The last word

This is my last day to be working a second shift for, I hope, a long long time. Yesterday I had little to do, so I actually finished an entire book--Poison Study, by Maria Snyder. It's good. I'll get the second one when it comes out in paperback. I'd be tempted to get it now, except that we already spent lots of money on books recently, plus I have to pay for our Thanksgiving tickets, which means taking money out of savings so that I can also pay for the mortgage. I believe I'm carrying more than half of the household costs right now. I'm not too worried about it but at times like this it would be more convenient to have a shared account. Oh well, in eight months we will.

I restarted Shoelace again yesterday. I got an idea that made the initial conceit (so to speak, at least I hope) work much better, and after all I finished Poison Study with three hours left in my workday. I did make some calls, mostly leaving messages that didn't quite say "I'll call you back" since I won't. I talked to about seven people and I was struck, as I have been, by the fact that people are rude on the phone. If they weren't saying, "You're talkin' to him" or "Who are you?" when I asked to speak to X, they would say, "This is."

I suppose this is more ungrammatical than rude, but it grates on me every time. "This is she" is proper. "This is me" or even "This is her" I'll take. But "This is"? That's not a sentence. I always resist the urge to say "This is what?" or "No it isn't" or "That's very philosophical, but I'm calling to talk about your future as much as your present." Where did people get this? Is it so hard to use a pronoun? Are they that afraid of mixing up their subjects and objects? Is their breath that precious.

Grr. However, only sixteen more hours to have to deal with it all. And maybe I'll get some more writing done. Failing that, I found a new (to me) Nero Wolfe book in the thrift store that would take up an hour or two.