Let's Catch up, Shall We?

Hello, lovely internets. I am back. Many posts are a brewing in the ol' noggin, but I'll need a little more time to get the ideas out. They get stuck sometimes, you know? Be patient. They are coming, albeit slowly.

Every time I use the word "albeit," I wonder if I am using it correctly.

So. New York.

I went there.

I did some stuff.

It was fine.

I have been to NYC before and I can take it or leave it. I wasn't in awe of the tall buildings or paranoid about being robbed. I joined my group for some siteseeing opportunities, and passed others up.

The majority of my time was spent painting the kitchen of a very old church in Brooklyn. I do not have the literary skills to make that sound exciting, but even if I did, I'd be lying. It wasn't exciting. But it was necessary, so that's what we did. Others tore down a wall, put up insulation, and put a new wall on top of it. I helped a little with that, but mostly I just watched.

Oh, and I installed a handle on a door.

All by myself.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

The one earth-shattering event that did take place in New York involved me finishing a book. Having read a few books in the last year or so, the actual finishing is not the part that was so earth-shattering. No, the earth-shattering part was that is was fiction.

Robin asked if I wanted to read The Thirteenth Tale with her. I told her I'd try, but I knew I probably wouldn't keep up with her. Plus, I was only requesting it from the library when she was already picking up her copy.

That was the week before I left for New York.

She was done before I ever stepped foot in the Big Apple.

But by that time, I was already too far in to just quit. So I finished.

My general feeling about the book is that the story was interesting. However, many parts of it were just not believable. I know, I know. Suspend reality. It's just that I don't like having to do that. I like reality. Reality is my friend.

Also mildly annoying is the way the author described silly details about things that didn't really matter in the story. It was like she was using her words to show off about how eloquent she could be about a book. Or someone's skin. Or a statue.

But that was only mildly annoying. When I tell you the part that REALLY annoyed me, I am going to sound like a prude:

There was a certain sexual scene early in the book that, while not particularly graphic, just made me feel yucky. And I couldn't get it out of my mind. To make matters worse, I didn't think this scene was necessary for the plot.

Also central to the plot was an event that the author never described, but the reader finds out about later: (spoiler alert) an incestuous relationship between a brother and sister.

These things, if they were essential parts of a TRUE story, would have been a bit easier for me to take. But they weren't. I was reading simply for entertainment. So, when I finished the book, which contained a generally interesting story, I was left with this question lingering in my mind: Was it worth it? Was having to think about the yuck worth the little bit of entertainment that I got out of it?

The jury is still out on that one.

And that's what I did while I was away. What about you?