I went through my TBR and pulled out a POD book that I heard was really good. Ransom Seaborn by Bill Deasy. It starts with a sort of author's note:

     The shower water felt like tiny pebbles on my skin. It had been days, maybe even a week. I put on fresh jeans and a T-shirt, and set up shop at this worn, nicked, underused desk. PowerBook, 20 ounce Styrofoam coffee cup, ashtray, cigarettes-- all the essentials.

     It's raining outside, a fine mist. I hear it just barely against the window-- imaginary childhood horses rushing toward me from beyond the pale. I'm trying to think too much about what I'm writing...what I'm doing here. I guess I have a story to tell you.


     Here goes nothing.

Wow. I read the first page of the story and it's just as fine as that.

Yes, I found the book to read next.

There's nothing like starting to read and realizing it's brilliant. I'll report back and let you know if it stays that way. How could it not?

Labels: reading