The Literate Kitty

I know there are plenty of folks out there who're perfectly happy staying in the small towns and communities they grew up in— actually, that describes approximately ninety-five percent of my high school graduating class —but that was never, ever gonna work for me. (I guess if you’re already pleased as punch with who you are, and have zero interest in growth or— gasp! —change, then all I can say is more power to you, but… yeah, no.) Anyway, when what sounded like a fun little mystery—featuring (what would undoubtedly be) a plucky heroine, from Tinytown, USA (in this case a Louisiana bayou hamlet), who goes to the Big Apple (mainly Brooklyn, but tomato, tomahto) and has adventures —happened across my desk, I latched onto it greedily.  But, would it be a fulfilling fish-out-of-water/young-woman-spreading-her-wings-and-finding-herself tale… or some disappointingly-schmaltzy claptrap about how much better life in the country is? Time to dive into Olivia Blacke’s Killer Content ....

One thing I’ve always loved about mountains is the abundance of twisty, narrow, little roads with all those hairpin curves, winding their way up and around and up… and entirely at their own pace (well, at the pace set by those souls who originally cut, blasted, and paved the treacherous paths, in the first place,,, but you get my meaning, I’m sure). That predilection for twisty things carries over to tales of suspense. I like to wonder what’s around the next bend… and the next page turn.  But, if mountain roads were like mazes—with endless wrong turns and wasted energies leading absolutely nowhere—I wouldn’t like them nearly so much.  The same holds true of mysteries. When an author fashions psychological twists into maddening dead ends over and over (and over ) again, at some point I grow weary of following along; there has to be some sort of payoff, here and there, to maintain enough commit to follow all of that incessant winding and meandering to the end. ...

You know those “old friends”... the ones you can just be yourself around, who accept you, flaws and all, and with whom an absence--of weeks, months, or sometimes even years--does nothing to diminish the bond you share? To blatantly hijack the tagline from an iconic ad campaign, those old friends are priceless.  So, when recently I found myself sans iPad (and thus, Kindle reading app)--which, naturally, left me rooting around for something, anything new to read--it was with immense pleasure (and no small amount of relief) that I lucked upon a very old friend (or two): the unfailingly witty-and-entertaining private detective duo of Lydia Chin and Bill Smith--finally back in action after an absence of a few years, on yet another engrossing case in the Big Apple--in S.J. Rozan’s fabulous mystery, Ghost Hero .  There are certain professions in which it’s generally understood that a high percentage of people (clients, patients, whatever) will lie to you. Cops, lawyers...

The world is full of things we know about... and things about which we know jack. For instance, I know a lot about cats, a respectable amount about fitness, and next-to-nothing about, oh, wild boars. Or jai alai. (Or how to chop an onion into neat little pieces rather than hideously mangling it, but that’s another story.)  For the most part, it’s okay not understanding everything ; I’m fine with my ignorance of meaner-than-snot hogs and weird handball offshoots (although I do secretly envy those who’ve mastered slicing-and-dicing).   Now, let’s take monsters. They’re everywhere (remember the bogeyman who slithered from your closet to under your bed in the dark every night? or the Tooth Fairy, who only left you money when you placed your sacrifice-- a bloody tooth --under your pillow?), but given that most people allow themselves to forget about all the things that go bump in the night once they’re adults, our knowledge of monsters is sadly lacking.  That’s...

Oh, how easy it is to loathe them, those obnoxiously self-important little rich kids. The ones born with tiny silver spoons in their mouths, whose every whim will be catered to by a host of cooks and nannies and household staff... children who have birthday parties that cost several thousand dollars, get whisked off in private jets and chauffeured limos for weekend getaways, and receive haute couture wardrobes and Lamborghinis as gifts once they’re teenagers... and who are always, always secure in the knowledge they’ll never want for anything... not when they’re destined, one day, to run huge companies, command vast fortunes, and otherwise lord over what they consider hoi polloi (that would be you and me, if you’re unsure).  Yes, it’s almost ridiculously easy to hate them. Dredging up any sympathy for those in the throes of teenage angst is, therefore, no easy task.  With the world (read “ every man-made convenience that makes life better ”) at their fingertips, how co...