I Dream of Lobstrosities

Stupid Stephen King.

Oh sure, Misery and The Shining were pretty good, but as far as I was concerned the rest of his oeuvre consisted of bloody proms, undead Fluffys, and arm-ripping clowns, so I didn't pay it much attention. I figured he was like the John Grisham of horror.

And, of course, I like to read about much more enlightening things like a suitcase with a million little legs, feudal-era police forces made up of werewolves, dwarves and trolls, and a personified Death WHO ALWAYS SPEAKS IN CAPITAL LETTERS.

(Seriously folks, having almost completed The Year of the Pratchett, I must confess that it has been one of the best - and probably the guiltiest - literary years of my existence.)

Nevertheless, between Pratchetts as I was and desperate for something to read, I picked up The Husband's latest - The Dark Tower series by SSK. I'd heard the odd good word, often from places I trusted, so thought it might be better than re-reading Austen yet again.

The first book, it was okay. So-so. Middling. Interesting enough to make me want to find out what happens, but not so much that I couldn't switch over to Sense and Sensibility without crying about it.

I asked The Husband if the next one was better. Yup, he assured me, it gets much more interesting.

That was two nights ago. Two. Very. SHORT. Nights.

Stupid Stephen King. Not only am I hooked on this new series (which impacts my allotted Pratchett time), but I am also extremely tired. And, until I'm done (5 books more to go after this one), we're probably talking about 6 hour nights.

Grrrrr.

Now, if you'll excuse me, The Gunslinger and Eddie Dean have just misplaced the schizophrenic black lady with no legs - I must be off.