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sparkindarkness(Back from work, completely wide awake. Really tired of my sleep patterns these days)
Beyond the obvious. Because, y’know, I have crap on my shelves. I have a lot of crap on my shelves. Hells, I have the Merry Gentry books and they tend to make Anita Blake look like high art. I like my crap and that doesn’t avoid me.
I’m an avid reader, but my books really come in 2 kinds. The best anology i can think of is food.
I love food. lovely lovely food. And sometimes I will spend all day with Beloved preparing an epic, several course meal of grand proportions. A feast of indulgent, fiddly dishes, or spices and cuisines from around the globe. the most tender, richest ingredients blended into a thousand complex and palatte teasing combinations to be delicately sampled slowly and carefully to get the full richness of flavours from each one.
And sometimes I pour a tub of dippy sauces, mix up some batter, fire up the deep fryer and just throw anything in - prawns, mushrooms, garlic cloves, onion rings, cheese, black pudding, sausages, left overs, etc etc, eating messily with scorched fingers all the unhealthy nommy nommy things gobbled down while piping hot and greasy.
And so it is with books. I have my books that are complex symphonies of plot and characterisation that I get utterly lost in, all concentration on the book, surroundings forgotten. They’re not necessarily high literature, but they’re extremely good books that grab me, hold me and need to be read without disturbance or interruption. They are my fancy feasts in book form.
And then there’s my trashy crap. My brain fluff. The plots are weak, the characters are appalling Mary Sues, and there may be continuity errors you can drive a bus through. The sort you read in the advert breaks of TV programmes. Or while doing something else. Or after a long day at work when you can’t concentrate. They do the same thing as my crappy cheesey dvd collection. I can indulge, enjoy and switch the brain off. It’s easy, relaxing fluff to amuse and wind down to.
What annoys me about Anita Blake is not that they’re trashy fluff (or even that they’re bad trashy fluff because the endless sex scenes are just boring) but because the first few books were pretty damn close to the first category. They were my literature feasts.
It’s like sitting down in an ultra-fancy, restaurant and having the waiter plonk a burger in front of you. You may not be adverse to burgers - but there’s a time and a place and a Big Mac wasn’t what was advertised or what your ordered. And it’s made worse knowing that your Big Mac has been made by 4 star Michelin chef.
Beyond the obvious. Because, y’know, I have crap on my shelves. I have a lot of crap on my shelves. Hells, I have the Merry Gentry books and they tend to make Anita Blake look like high art. I like my crap and that doesn’t avoid me.
I’m an avid reader, but my books really come in 2 kinds. The best anology i can think of is food.
I love food. lovely lovely food. And sometimes I will spend all day with Beloved preparing an epic, several course meal of grand proportions. A feast of indulgent, fiddly dishes, or spices and cuisines from around the globe. the most tender, richest ingredients blended into a thousand complex and palatte teasing combinations to be delicately sampled slowly and carefully to get the full richness of flavours from each one.
And sometimes I pour a tub of dippy sauces, mix up some batter, fire up the deep fryer and just throw anything in - prawns, mushrooms, garlic cloves, onion rings, cheese, black pudding, sausages, left overs, etc etc, eating messily with scorched fingers all the unhealthy nommy nommy things gobbled down while piping hot and greasy.
And so it is with books. I have my books that are complex symphonies of plot and characterisation that I get utterly lost in, all concentration on the book, surroundings forgotten. They’re not necessarily high literature, but they’re extremely good books that grab me, hold me and need to be read without disturbance or interruption. They are my fancy feasts in book form.
And then there’s my trashy crap. My brain fluff. The plots are weak, the characters are appalling Mary Sues, and there may be continuity errors you can drive a bus through. The sort you read in the advert breaks of TV programmes. Or while doing something else. Or after a long day at work when you can’t concentrate. They do the same thing as my crappy cheesey dvd collection. I can indulge, enjoy and switch the brain off. It’s easy, relaxing fluff to amuse and wind down to.
What annoys me about Anita Blake is not that they’re trashy fluff (or even that they’re bad trashy fluff because the endless sex scenes are just boring) but because the first few books were pretty damn close to the first category. They were my literature feasts.
It’s like sitting down in an ultra-fancy, restaurant and having the waiter plonk a burger in front of you. You may not be adverse to burgers - but there’s a time and a place and a Big Mac wasn’t what was advertised or what your ordered. And it’s made worse knowing that your Big Mac has been made by 4 star Michelin chef.