Remember when I called Brit-Lit a guilty pleasure? Yeah, I know, I sounded like a jerk. Was I really embarrassed to be toting around Villette on the subway? Psh, doubtful. Maybe it was an act of karmic retribution, but now I find myself guilty--really, guilty--over a vastly different, and addictive, pleasure. The worst part? There aren't English accents or corsets in this one, so I can't even feign consistency. No, I have truly veered off into another country, and thudded down in the American South.
Each morning, I choose which book to stuff into my purse, and lately, Charlaine Harris has been my most frequent escort on the F train. I've fanged my way through Dead Until Dark, Living Dead in Dallas, Club Dead, Dead to the World, and now, Dead as a Doornail. I stay up at night reading, I hardly watch television (except True Blood, natch), and I jones for my next fix constantly. The series is sassy, erotic, funny-as-hell, and blissfully distracting. The problem is that there are only 10 Sookie Stackhouse books out. And at this rate, I'll only last through Labor Day. What to do? Does anyone have this problem? Should I stretch them out, ration them? Don't make me go back to the Brontes yet--I'm having too much fun in Bon Temps.