Last night I dreamed I was standing on a wooden porch facing the sea. It was stormy, and I was pacing back and forth, waiting for somebody. The light from the house stretched hardly further than the rail of the porch, and in the distance, beyond the sand, the black waves were rolling into darkness.
I was impatient, looking back into the warm glow from the kitchen. I wrapped my bare arms around my shivering body and turned back to the ocean once more. That's when I saw him- Edgar Allan Poe, emerging from the depths of the water, walking toward me. And I knew he was the one I had been waiting for.
And would you believe that's when I woke up? What a letdown- one of the greatest American authors, and I don't even get to talk to him? Then again- I suppose I was lucky enough to see him. Not everybody can dream like I do.
I think though, that's because not everybody reads like I do either. Yesterday I read two books. The Man Who Was Poe by Avi, and True Believer by Nicholas Sparks. That accounts for the beach and house, and the appearance of Poe.
But where did I get the idea that he was going to send me a message? After some very deep soul-searching, I arrived at this conclusion: Because I read a book a day and then some during the summer, it is my duty to tell the world what is good and what isn't, what should grace personal bookshelves and what should be... quickly returned to the library and whited-out from the booklist.
So here we are. Because I'm not picky about the books I read (except for romance novels- Sparks is about as far as I'll go in that genre), you can expect reviews of a conglomeration of books. Right now, for example, I am catching up on all books my mother is giving the third-graders in her class to read, so you'll learn a lot about children's bestsellers... pretty self-explanatory, I say.
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