Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Proof of my Compulsive Need to Own Books

Might as well make a list of the books I have recently acquired from assorted sources over the last month, including the veritable dragon's hoard I dragged to my cave  home on Saturday.  I think it is evident enough that I have a problem.  I do not really want a cure, thank you very much.

From a B&N run
The Tropic of Serpents -- Marie Brennan
The Annotated Northanger Abbey -- ed. David M. Shapard (I'm collecting this set.  They are marvelous).

From two different visits to Boomerang Books

Red Mars -- Kim Stanley Robinson
The Harp of the Grey Rose -- Charles De Lint
Devices and Desires -- K.J. Parker

The Charterhouse of Parma -- Stendhal
Last and First Men /Star Maker -- Olaf Stapledon
Turning Back the Clock -- Umberto Eco
The Blank Slate / How the Mind Works - Steven Pinker

From the Clemson Literary Festival

Telling Stories, Talking Craft -- ed. Chris Arnold & Anthony Cook

From the Dahlonega Literary Festival

The Art of War for Writers -- James Scott Bell
The Kick-Ass Writer - Chuck Wendig
Plot Perfect -- Paula Munier
Mrs. Poe -- Lynn Cullen
Wicked As They Come / Wicked As She Wants  (I confess, I think these will be guilty pleasures, plus she charmed me.)/ Hit - Delilah S. Dawson
Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs / How To Flirt with a Naked Werewolf -- Molly Harper (more guilty pleasure, I suspect)
Fiddlehead / The Inexplicables / Dreadnought / Ganymede -- Cherie Priest
Ghost on Black Mountain -- Ann Hite
The Five Destinies of Carlos Moreno - George Weinstein

True Confession:  I only got 1/3 of the way through Cherie Priest's Boneshaker before, frankly, I chickened out.  I knew horrible things were going to happen.  I mean, ZOMBIES.  Usually that results in the terrible, and I'm not much good at the terrible because I'm a chickenshit coward and I don't much like to be scared.  However, now that I've met and talked with Cherie Priest, I somehow feel better about it.  I can't explain it exactly --  I mean, I've made it through most of the Dresden Files books, and any number of other supernatural horrible things books without much problem -- but now it feels more like a friend telling me a scary story instead of someone evil and unknown intending to deprive me of sleep by whispering how some old lady accidently killed her cat by putting it in the microwave to dry (THAT HAUNTS ME AT NIGHT! NOOOO!)  So I think I can pick up Boneshaker now and finish it, and march right on through her other books with defiance and smiles.

And, yes, I admit that I fight to resist the urge to pile all my books up, sit on top of them, and gloat.

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