I think it's been established that I have a library problem. I have 150+ books at home that I haven't read, but I can't stop going to the library and getting more. And the books I DO get from the library I mostly either don't finish, or it takes me way, way too long to get to them.
Case in point: Slammerkin, by Emma Donoghue. It sure was great. But I had to renew it three times (which is the max for the Chicago Public Library), take it back, check it out again, and renew it one more time before I got to it. The jackass who already has the book that you want to check out? That's me. And I'm not even reading it. It's in a pile on my floor.
Anyway, continuing this asinine tradition, I went to the library yesterday to return some things, see if some holds had come in (you never know if, in between checking online and walking to the library, something's happened), and then checked out two more books. They are Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín (I def. copy/pasted that -- I'm not figuring out how to do accents on Windows) and The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise. In my defense, I've been interested in the latter for a number of months.
And then Room, which is about...well, we all know what Room's about. The woman is no respecter of genre's what I'm saying. Oh! AND -- AND -- she's super-smart. Like, scholarly-smart. Which is awesome. She's one of the few current day authors where, if I were in a room with her, my mouth would get all dry and then I'd just kind of stare with giant, unblinking eyes and then she'd get unnerved until I shoved my book at her and whispered in a creepy way "Sign, please," at which point she'd scribble her name and then move to the next person, leaving me a shaking leaf of a human being.
But that's just how it plays out in my head. Basically, she's really smart and really good at that whole writing thing, and I've enjoyed everything I've read so far. And I assume she's a nice person, but do we ever really know that? I've heard some people you would expect to be incredibly nice are, in fact, dicks. So maybe if I were my dry-mouthed self, she'd just stare pointedly at me, say something withering and then stalk off. But the thing is, I'd probably still love her books. So no harm, no foul, or whatever that vaguely sports-like expression is.
What was this post about? Where am I? Who put these peanuts here? I need my truss.