Reading one book per month was one of my New Year’s resolutions. I meant one fiction book per month, since a big part of the reason was to determine what I do and don’t like in a book—a good exercise if I’m gonna write one in November. And I love fiction… I just never allow myself the pleasure of reading a good fiction book.
I wasn’t specific enough with my goal, though, and I started cheating. The end of the month would be just around the corner, so I’d pick up whatever non-fiction book was handy and count that as my book for the month. (Thus, Getting Things Done was my April book, Writing Realistic Dialogue & Flash Fiction my May book.)
Not this month, though. This month I read a real, live fiction book. It happened to be a pretty bad one… but I read it just the same. I read Death of a Postmodernist, which I picked up for next to nothing at a library sale. Unfortunately, I just didn’t care about anybody in the story—not the protagonist, not the murder victim, and certainly not any of the suspects. So, it wasn’t as fun as I had hoped, but I suppose it can serve as a learning experience for when I write my own novel…
