Delayed Gratification

I'd love for this to be a book blog, but I never get far enough ahead! I have unread copies of celebrated books from recent years: Possession, Three Junes, The Known World. I've not been living under a rock. I know they're good. I know they'll be fabulous and I'll love them. But not just yet.... I have stacks of arc copies from library shows, and my "to be read" shelves are starting to outnumber my "have been read" ones. I keep hoping that I will find a mysterious wealthy benefactor or a patron and be paid to read, but so far no luck. Although, clearly, I need to cut back on the gothic.

Part of my problem is an overdeveloped sense of delayed gratification. A saint, who masquerades as a friend working in a bookstore, sent me an advance copy of Deanna Raybourn's Silent in the Sanctuary. I don't remember exactly when I got it, but it was an advance copy and the book was published in January, so, needless to say, I've had it for several months.

The worst part is that it has not been languishing on a shelf, but on my nightstand the entire time! I knew I was going to love it, I knew it was going to be over too soon, and I knew I was going to have to wait until next January to read her next one. Okay, maybe October, if my saintly connection holds up, but you get the idea.

I started it several times. I'd lie in bed, relishing the first few pages, put it down and begin to gush to my husband about how much I liked it, and just not pick it up again. I'm a horrible coward, I suppose, but I wanted to save it. Then, like a glutton, once I started, I devoured the entire thing this weekend and now it's gone. *sigh* And it's months until January or October.

The thing is, I'm inconsistent. I read a review, became obsessed with Dan Simmons' The Terror, used a treasured gift card to order a copy, tracked the Barnes & Noble order like the federal government tracking a shipment of uranium, and tucked in to it with gusto the minute it arrived, looking up only to rave or recite newfound knowledge about the formation of pancake ice. And instead of feasting on a good book, I have the nasty habit of snacking on less substantial fare. It's like planting a garden and then binging on canned corn, but not because I prefer the canned, but because I'm afraid of the day the real thing will be gone and I'll have to wait a whole year for more.

Anyway, Silent in the Sanctuary is that good. I enjoy a good mystery - not particularly high-minded of me, maybe, but there you have it. I like the puzzle, the sense of purpose in reading, and the fact that all mysteries are really, in some senses, the same story told over and over against a variety of backdrops. Mysteries are the kind of books one reads if one enjoys looking at changing scenery, I suppose, but so many of them have such artificial backdrops, the literary equivalent of bad matte painting or stereotypical casting. I can tolerate a weak plot or a weak structure, but both at once are too much! As a result, those dreaded mysteries referred to as "cozies" are right out. However, Deanna Raybourn has taken scenery that has, at first glance, been done, well, to death: Victorian England, manor houses, house parties, eccentric families, etc., etc., etc. However, with her research and humor, they're just terrific. This may be due to the fact that she has a Victorian-era heroine who is not a squeamish fainter bound too tightly in corsets or in social niceties, but an independently wealthy widow with an outlandish family, a reformed prostitute-turned-maid, and a pet raven. What's not to love?!

I have other books I'm excited about - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, The Likeness, The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey, The Matchmaker of Perigord. Oh, and I'm waiting on the library to call about my hold on The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher! They all sound delightful, and I have so many prospects that just selecting a book is becoming daunting. I'm beginning to feel like Smaug from The Hobbit, perched atop my book pile, admiring all my beautiful possessions and all their wondrous possibilities, so mesmerized that just staring and admiring eclipses all possibility of real enjoyment. But I may get to them while they're still timely! I may! In fact, just this week, I read the prologue of The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, was entranced, gushed about it, and put it down. The potential seems so luscious that letting it ripen on the vine just a little bit longer can't hurt, can it?