Last week I finally started on a little project that I've been dying to do for years now but for some reason keep putting off aka writing a novel or trying to at least. It's been a lot of fun and has kept me pretty busy. So busy in fact, that I've hardly done any reading. I started in Brooklyn by Colm Toibin this weekend and although its only 250 pages, I'm only half way. It's not bad but I wouldn't exactly call it The novel of the year like many critics did in 2009 but we'll see.
I did finish The Secret Life of Bees for my book club, mind you this was last week but who's keeping track? It was actually the first stereotypical 'Book Club Book' that we read meaning it involved a girl who escapes from her dad's clutching claws together with their black maid in the 60s. They try to find out the truth behind her mother's death / disappearance and end up staying with three unusual black sisters who make honey, go figure. Female bonding, tragedy, love and a whiff of politics, it's all in there covered in a nauseating layer of honey.
The Secret Life of Bees was a pleasant and quick read but not really groundbreaking material, the perfect fodder for a sweet and cozy afternoon. It was a nice change from my usual reading list but nothing I'd go back to any time soon. It did however mange to shock and perplex me for a completely different reason, namely there were 50 pages missing from my novel smack in the middle. All of a sudden someone was dead and someone else was in jail for non-related reasons. What the hell's all that about? Am I forced to check every page before buying a book now?
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