Lately I’ve been losing my library books. First it was Debra Winger’s Undiscovered, her odd but interesting memoir about her career and personal life. To make matters worse, it’s overdue. I looked at home, in the car, and at work. At least I finished it before losing it.
Then on Saturday, at the salon, I started reading Off Season by Anne Rivers Siddons. I used to love her books (most of them) and at some point decided that her writing was overly descriptive and her characters unrealistically tormented (also she reuses names between books, which I find annoying when one of those names is Sibley) (plus she used “okie-like” in both a novel and her book of nonfiction, which made me put down the latter before finishing it).
But in spite of that I’m halfway through, and I want to read it, and I can’t find it anywhere. I’m starting to think I left it at the salon. And I’m also starting to wonder what’s up with me and losing library books.
And then today I took one more look through my basket at work, and solved at least half of the problem. Debra Winger, you are officially Discovered.
I dunno, I think losing library books is an okie-like trait. : ) Maybe Siddons is trying to channel Steinbeck with her verbiage.
If you read Winger’s bio, you could do the Terms of Endearment tour and read Shirley MacLaine’s next. That’s some high comedy with all her crazies.
Doesn’t Shirley MacLaine have a series of autobiographies, just about this life? I think that may be too big a commitment for me.
By the way, it turns out that I did leave it at the salon–they called the library, who called me. So all’s well that ends without a fine.