The Literate Kitty

Yes, I have fallen off the face of the earth. Okay, not really...  gravity didn't decide to up and fail me, and I'm not floating around out there (or freezing, which I suppose would technically be the case) in space. It sure  feels that way, though. (Actually, it feels like I've fallen right off and landed in a big ol' pit of crud.) So, what is this abyss into which I've fallen, you ask? (And why the heck don't I have one of those "help, I've fallen" monitor thingies, har-de-har?) Well, for one thing, work keeps on rearing its less-than-pretty head. (Owning your own business? Not so glamorous. If someone tells you otherwise, turn around and walk the other way. I mean it.) Then there are the multiple governments which keep demanding another piece of our hot little pie, on a monthly and quarterly basis. (Not only does Uncle Sam come sniffing around for the daily special, but also the lesser uncles from three different states--and each one in...

It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again--an author I like (or, make that used to like) puts out a piece of schlock, leaving me totally out-of-sorts about being cheated out of a respectable chunk of valuable reading time (not to mention, some hard-earned money). The absolute worst is when an author you really liked suddenly starts producing dreck. Now, other people may be much more forgiving or tolerant than I am, but once an author loses me due to a run of bad books, it’s very hard--okay, nearly  impossible --to ever get me back. (I can think of two popular authors, off the top of my head, whom I haven't read in years because of this.) My willingness to give the author another chance is commensurate with his/her abilities, naturally; if the author showed impressive talent in the past, I’m more willing to give at least a couple future books a chance. If that writer’s abilities were only marginal at best, though, I’m considerably less inclined to reach for his/her latest at th...

For me, it all started a long time ago... when I was a child, staying up till the wee hours of the night (or morning), watching some made-for-TV movie about Jack the Ripper with my mom. Decades later, I have no idea what the actual movie might have been--although it probably wasn’t a very good one--but I do know that thus began my own curiosity with the particular subset of mass murderers commonly known as serial killers.   But what, we might ask, does it say about us, to have something which almost borders on an obsession with these horrible criminals? (And if your first reaction is to shake your head, rejecting outright the notion that perfectly “normal” people could be so interested in any such thing, then a brief tour of the thriller section at your local bookstore is clearly in order.) No matter whether you're fascinated by them or not, the serial killer character--someone who repeatedly goes out and murders total strangers for no comprehensible (and certainly no defensible) ...

See? I like books. ( Dis iz a luvly book. ) And, um, clean feet. ( Don't laff. U probly wish u cud kleen ur feet dis eezily... ) And, um, sleeping. ( Obvsly. I iz kitteh. ) Books, clean feet, and sleeping. I know there's more to life than that ( liek noms!! ), but this is a pretty good start. :)

Ah, Winter. How I love your cold, bracing winds and the snow you (hopefully) deposit in substantial amounts during your three-or-so-month reign. You make me feel so invigorated, and you give me a reason to own all those warm sweaters and cool boots.  Of course, when you’re still leaving the white stuff around in April—as you occasionally do—my love affair with you becomes somewhat diminished.  In the middle of summer, though, with temps hovering in the mid-90s? I love you, Sweet Winter, I truly do. So, when a book set in Toronto primarily during the winter finally made its way to the top of my TBR pile? It was a happy July day for me.  That it’s a legal thriller was just more cause for celebration, since it had been awhile since a good courtroom drama found its way into my eager paws. (The dust-jacket blurbs from others authors whom I regularly read didn’t hurt, either.) Robert Rotenberg’s Old City Hall begins bright and early one blustery December morning, with an elde...