As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I’ve been trying to make a dent in the pile of books I have–both physically and electronically–waiting for my attention (reading, that is, not writing, alas). When the internet repairman was at the house last week, he asked if I was a teacher or maybe a librarian, which should give you some indication of how much reading still remains.
Still, I have made good progress though, sadly, I haven’t encountered many keepers. I plowed through half-a-dozen Golden Age, Roaring Twenties, and pre/post WWII mysteries that had been residing on my Kindle since who knows when, and promptly deleted them. I have, it seems, become a very picky reader over the years. Or maybe I just know what I like. That sounds more positive, doesn’t it?
The stories were all set in and around London, and one even used British spelling for an authentic feel (I love that), but there were inadvertent Americanisms scattered about, which was distracting. One of the Goodreads reviews that I read was very put out about the inaccuracies and boldly exclaimed that Americans should stick to their own settings and stop trying to pretend to be British. The comment was a bit harsh, but I sympathized. Continue reading