I have an addiction. Stashed like bottles in closets, between sofa cushions, behind diaper stacks. Piled like pills on bedside tables, under the bed, in the car floorboard is bound dope causing me to ignore fighting children, steaming pots of green beans and stop signs at the end of my sidewalk. And you, all of you, who send Barnes and Noble gift cards, boxes of new releases, and grocery bags of cast-offs, you're enablers. The least I can do, especially for those of you whose books I never return, is give something back.
Edmund Burke tells us, "To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting." So here goes, Mr. Burke. Every week or month or so, I'll be rambling on about novels, short stories, the written word in general, anything that delights my literary heart. I hope you enjoy my opinion, but if you don't, please don't tell me. I'm no good with criticism; ask my mother.
My good friend, Kevin Watson, has graciously agreed to let me take a stab at his titles from Press 53. I have to admit I benefit from his judgement. He makes it easy to find great stories. Go to Press53.com and pick up some books because the only thing better than eating small farm produce is reading small press writers.
Thanks for checking me out! So to speak.