late-nite trashy reading (but then it's my own fault for not reading better-quality stuff instead). Truth or Dare by Jayne Ann Krentz (flimsy as well as trashy; I already read one book last week in which a controlling husband faked his own death, and this was one too many...); The 37th Hour by Jodi Compton (completely lame; looked promising, but turned out to be incredibly weak; RIDICULOUS plot--in fact, there's no real story at all... and various gross implausibilities); the latest Matthew Scudder novel from Lawrence Block, All the Flowers Are Dying (well, he's a good writer, and those early Scudder books are so excellent, but this one has a RIDICULOUS serial-killer thing going down and I can't help but feel that Scudder should have been gracefully laid to rest some years ago); and a mixed bag of an essay collection called Tales from the Couch: Writers on Therapy (a few good essays, several of which I'd read elsewhere; on the whole, though, it is extraordinary how formulaic the essays ended up being. You would have a funnier and more revealing collection if you did a volume called "Writers on Dentistry").
ENOUGH! Now I am going to read some non-trashy novels for a change. Also must finish getting ready for the talk I'm giving on Thursday. I'm giving another talk next week too, and that one's more or less open to the public, if anyone's interested.