So, I'm wandering through the aisles of Borders on Friday afternoon, the second straight day I've hit up a bookstore for a mix of good reads and cold air (today's high was around 103). I follow my usual patterns. US History. Religion. Poli Sci. You know, the kinds of things you'd read while curled up at the fireplace, if only you had a fireplace in your apartment and if only it were winter, when such things are desired.
I decide I need to stretch myself. I read nonfiction almost exclusively. ("American Gospel" is one of my current reads.) You see, I'm willing to take a risk on a nonfiction book because I can read the jacket cover and get a good idea of whether or not I'll enjoy the book. Usually I'm right.
Fiction is much tougher. You can find a book that seems to have a decent plot, but halfway through you realize it's a waste of your money.
Today I decided that I needed to buy a fiction book. I swing by that section, and my confusion begins. Do I go for a "classic" piece of lit, or something modern? Do I buy a book I read years ago but never bought, or do I purchase something totally new and unknown? I was tempted to buy something familiar. Steinbeck beckoned. Hemingway called out my name. Even Harper Lee drew me toward her classic.
In the end, I went modern: "East of the Mountains" by David Guterson. The plot sounds interesting, it wasn't a major investment, and perhaps I'll enjoy it.