I’m so glad Elizabeth’s NaNo is going well. Mine is in the toilet. Life interrupted. So my word count is way behind. I’m Team Mom for my son’s cross country team and they qualified for the state meet (yeah). And that means I’m spending my time organizing pasta parties for the girls and boys teams, ordering state meet food, and organizing the banquet (which includes menu, gifts, program, etc.) (boo). My posts this month were going to be about NaNo. But this one isn’t. Because NaNo is in the toilet this week.
So it’s about a bag of books my daughter brought home from work from a girl who knows she loves to read. We sat around the dining table after dinner tonight (last night for those reading this on Thursday) and read the first paragraphs of several of the books. We read for interest generated, story conflict exposed, and overall intrigue factor. There were several Debbie Macombers which I brushed off. I’ve read her stuff before and it’s great, but she doesn’t even open the bedroom door, much less close it after the kiss, and since I like sexual tension in stories and she doesn’t deliver, I wouldn’t otherwise have bothered with hers. There was a Nora Roberts that I’d read before and since she breaks a lot of rules, I wasn’t surprised that hers didn’t deliver the expected. We added in a Fern Michaels, an old Jane Evanovich, a Susan Wiggs, and a Jayne Ann Krentz. In the interest of brevity, I’m going with the first lines of these books. It was illuminating to discuss which first lines intrigued us into an interest in reading further. Here is what we read.
Janet Evanovich. Hero at Large.
Chris Nelson muttered an indiscernible oath and expelled a cloud of frost into the bone-chilling early-morning air.
Nora Roberts. Considering Kate.
It was going to be perfect.
Debbie Macomber. Those Christmas Angels.
Anne Fletcher pulled the last box of Christmas decorations from the closet in the spare bedroom.
Debbie Macomber. 50 Harbor Street.
Corrie McAfee was worried.
Fern Michaels. Balancing Act.
Soft night sounds and cool, whispering breezes at last persuaded her thickly lashed eyes to close in slumber.
Fern Michaels. The Scoop.
It was an event, there was no doubt about it.
Susan Wiggs. Table of Five.
“Hey, Miss Robinson, want to know how to figure out your porn-star name?” asked Russell Clark, bouncing on the balls of his feet toward the school bus.
Jayne Ann Krentz. Family Man.
Technically speaking, Luke Gilchrist was not a bastard.
I might try the Susan Wiggs because who doesn’t want to know their porn star name and I’ve always been a fan of Jayne Ann Krentz. Which one intrigues you enough to read more?