This evening I chased the moon, a fine, swollen creature.
Earlier in the day I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help, which I wanted to like so much more than I did. I am addicted to nuance and to language as a reader; that is all I will say. Later on in the day, reading the opening chapters of Mary Karr's Lit, I felt my readerly self settling in.
Then came the moon.
For one hour this afternoon, the house will be quiet, and I won't be cooking and I won't be cleaning and my gorgeous son will be off at his job.
The plan, then, is this: I'm going to sneak away and read a little deeper into Kathryn Stockett's The Help, a book, Motoko Rich reported in the New York Times, that was "at first rejected by nearly 50 agents" before it was "scooped up by an imprint of Penguin and pushed aggressively to booksellers, who fell in love with it.... Amid blockbusters from the likes of Dan Brown, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell and Nicholas Sparks, Ms. Stockett has stayed within the Top 5 on The New York Times Hardcover Fiction Best-Seller list since August."
Who doesn't like that kind of publishing story? Who doesn't want to love this book? I've only read the opening chapters. I'm using this hour to read more.
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