Friday, December 19, 2003

Wednesday night was to be a free night. This was not altogether ideal; my wonderful art teacher cancelled due to a rather bad cold, with the knowledge that I won’t be seeing here again for several weeks (she’s going home for the holidays). She’s a good friend, and I’ll miss her.

But I knew I’d have the evening free. I planned to bake some cookies, write, and do a bit of reading. I’d even bought a few new books for the occasion: a complete collection of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy novels, and Joseph Heller’s Catch 22.

I batted a .333; after dinner, I cracked The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy compilation and didn’t stop until I reached page 275 (all the way through the original Hitchhiker novel and within thirty pages of the end of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe), at which point an alrm whimpered in the back of my mind that maybe bedtime was near. It was 11:00 p.m.

I half expected Hitchhiker to be a mind-blowing, brilliant novel. It wasn’t. Instead, it was a consistently funny, simply entertaining book. Which is exactly the kind of book I tend to gravitate towards these days.

But perhaps that style is remarkable in itself. It can be awfully hard to write a tale that’s simply fun. The temptation to become the next Hemingway sneaks in with alarming ease.

In other news: new poll. On the right.

Leave a Reply

I work for Amazon. The content on this site is my own and doesn’t necessarily represent Amazon’s position.