Gracious Host says writers need to read, so since I'm pretending to be a writer, I thought I'd pretend to read.
I was browsing the library and John Updike jumped out at me. Never read him. He's a respected, classic writer. I picked up The Witches of Eastwick and took it home.
Started on it the next night.
Returned it to the library the day after, and not in a good way.
I couldn't get past three pages of it, at which point I'd already read several times about how the speaker steamrolled her R's in her New England way, and it was so distracting that I wasn't even following the dialogue itself. Seriously, I was over the story about five minutes. I thought of getting through the next couple hundred pages in the same slogging fashion, and my very will to live began to diminish.
Grandma gave me an international thriller to get through instead. I'm partway into that, and it's fine, although I can't remember the title or the author at the moment. While we were in Portland at Powell's (what a wonderful bookstore), I picked up Mr. Mercedes. Gracious Host rarely lets me down.