Mystery, fantasy, horror, historical fiction or self help. When I am in a bookstore, I feel like a foreigner at Disney World. There I stand, overwhelmed with choices, uncertain about what book to pick up. I just finished Gargoyle, a strange and graphic journey of a contrite porn star who while in the burn unit meets a strange woman who swears they were lovers in a past life. Its the first book I have been able to finish all winter. There was nothing predictable about it. That is a tough act to follow. I tried to read the latest Updike novel- The Widows of Eastwick. For my tastes the ladies were too cranky and not comfortable in their wrinkled skin. I got tired of the grousing. The bookseller was very patient and would scan the shelves according to my sketchy description of what I liked and brought me books that sounded as though I would have to start taking antidepressants to just get through the prologue. I wound up with my usual- adolescent fiction/ fantasy. A tome so far removed from reality, I am transported to a place without Ponzi schemes, systematic rape or torture, mass unemployment or something equally nasty and disturbing. Wizards and burned porn stars I can deal with.
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