I have my childhood dream: magic books.
Between my Kindle (I get lots of cheap and good books from BookBub) and the Scribd app on my iPad ($10 a month for unlimited access to their giant library) I never run out. I am a fast reader and my favorites lately are:
- history, some really good writing is going on there
- biography, especially a writer who spends a lot of time with the person's history and tries to understand them, like Shawn Levy
- true crime, like Ann Rule or Jack Olsen
- a bit of horror, since my brother is writing it, but I'm not that into today's fashions, really prefer Stephen King
- thrillers; detective like the Prey series by John Sandford, suspense, both psychological stuff and hardboiled like Richard Stark or Lee Child -- probably my favorite genre
- science and health
- science fiction is the love of my life, but I had the experience of going to my local library as a shy and quiet child and just roaring through the decades of fine stuff by masters in their field, the classic stuff that had stood the test of time. This was a wonderfully immersive experience, but it means the great stuff is now doled out in teaspoons. I am frankly not that impressed by most, though I do love the approach of John Scalzi. I am sure when I have to time to experiment I can find more someones both new and good.
As far as literary goes, I run across the rare one I like, such as
The English Patient, but I ran through the then-classics in my teens and early twenties, and I just have no patience these days for a lack of narrative drive, which is what a lot of these kinds of books suffer from, IMNSHO. (In my not so humble opinion.)
Narrative drive is often scorned as "plot" among the culturally elevated crowd, but they are wrong. Both character and plot are necessary. I like to see characters in action, letting these two elements inform each other.
I really dislike the common practice of meeting a character and they meander around the dining room for three chapters, remembering granny's rose perfume in miles and miles of carefully polished prose.
Do something! I want to scream at them.
Get on with it! And then I get to the end and there is no getting on with it to be had. Their memories of Gram's perfume are exhaustively detailed during various life crises barely glimpsed and never explained and that is all I get.
I
also write, which really eats into my reading, dang it!