Deja Dead

I should be writing, but at the moment, it's simply more comfortable to drift, to sit in my patch of living room and read. Yesterday, I polished off Deja Dead, and tonight, I read Bobby Singer's Guide to Hunting in one sitting. Granted, it was so much brain fluff, and brief at two hundred and seventy-five pages, but I haven't finished a book in a single sitting in years. It felt good. I might resume writing tomorrow, but it's more likely that I'll read my way through the weekend, the television a distant, pleasant drone in my ears.

Deja Dead acquitted itself well. It veered into screaming melodrama in places, usually whenever Book!Brennan was being menaced by the unseen killer or was engaged in an internal struggle between self-preservation and her Unyielding Pursuit of Great Justice, but there was palpable suspense, and Book!Brennan was refreshingly human. She got angry, lonely, confused, uncertain, and even horny. She made stupid decisions and paid for them.

( Deja Dead--SPOILERS )

All things considered, though, the intensity of the mystery outweighed the story's stylistic and narrative flaws. I've got the second book in the series on my bookshelf, and I'll get to it as soon as I finish the first Kay Scarpetta novel.

Watching the World Change

Life...is. The rain has let up at last, and the weather promises to be fair for a few days. The town is quiet, deep in the winter doldrums. There's a Willie Nelson concert on the eleventh, but I've no interest in it. There are only two concerts that occupy my mind these days, but they are remote, months away, and little about them is certain yet.

I'm not even sure why I'm typing this. It's just so many empty words, the sound of one hand clapping, an excuse to fill time and space with pixels and froth. My section of LJ is a desolate expanse of silence. Voices I once heard often have fallen silent or drifted to other platforms. I miss them, but I have no right to call them back, and I will not follow them to Tumblr or Facebook. This is my plot of cyberspace, my online homestead, and I will leave it only when there is nothing left. I do not know where I will go then. Perhaps I will simply go quiet. I have no desire to be the cumbersome behemoth lumbering through the more gracile primates, clumsy feet stumbling and sinking into the tarry earth.

But I do not wish to be quiet. I just don't know what to say.