I even broke the Christmas rule and bought it yesterday. But it just jumped into my curious, hot little hands before I could stop myself. And then I read the first page...
"You can tell I don't get out much. And it's not because I'm not pretty. I am. I'm blond and blue-eyed and twenty-five, and my legs are strong and my bosom is substantial, and I have a waspy waistline."
... Dear gods, what have I gotten myself into? Or, I should say, what have I spent my money on?
I don't know what it is about me lately. I seem to be becoming extremely snobby about books. (However, I still am the first one to cheer an author on when they're kicking ass. *Licks Stephen R. Donaldson*) I've started Kim Harrison's Dead Witch Walking three times and can't seem to get past five pages without having to stop. I've been reading Jacqueline Carey's Kushiel's Dart for six months and am only on page 52. (Oh man, I've never read a book that made me want to shoot myself so badly before.)
Maybe I've just been unlucky of late. Maybe the genres I like to read the most are just having sucky authors... okay, or maybe it's just me. And I'm willing to accept that... as long as it were true. But after reading excerpts to friends... I'm not so sure that's the case.
... ... Who the hell says the word 'bosom' and expects to be taken seriously outside of a trashy romance novel, anyway?