Here I Go...

It will probably not come as a surprise to most people that book lovers aren't exactly the most technologically savvy group of individuals out there (apologies to anyone I've offended who was blessed with both aptitudes). My husband, in fact, cheers every time I can switch our television from "tv mode" to "DVD mode" without eight questions and one tantrum.

However, since we're in the middle of an economic meltdown and independent (this is a word you'll be reading a lot, so you better get used to it) booksellers are all trying to figure out ways to get books heard, I am jumping on the bandwagon and starting my own book blog. So, here I go...

A little bit about me: I currently work at one of the best independent bookstores in New England, The Odyssey Bookshop, and am having more fun than I could have ever hoped for when I took this job. I came to the Odyssey after spending five years in New York City as an assistant literary agent, which was a great job, but ultimately not for me. As an agent, you're inundated with hundred and hundreds of partial and complete manuscripts, out of which maybe 3 will work out each year -- if you're lucky. It's absolutely necessary that you love a manuscript 100% before you decide you want take on, and therefore, you have to be incredibly discerning and critical. My brain, however, just doesn't function that way. I love books, LOVE them, but I found myself ultimately looking for reasons NOT to take on a book -- looking for what was wrong with it instead of what was right with it. Being so critical all of time took all the fun out of it for me and probably made me a miss a couple of gems. This is by no means a commentary on the company I worked for, just a note on how my brain works.

Now I am free to love a book for all of its successes and its faults. And in all reality, how many books out there are absolutely perfect?

I love fiction and read very little non-fiction, though I am trying my best to branch out. I read Carolyn Jessop's Escape recently and just picked up Jonathan Harr's A Civil Action, another classic I never got around to reading until now.

Also on my nightstand, and by nightstand I mean the tote bag full of books I've recently started carrying me everywhere, I have galleys of some really great upcoming novels that are currently under consideration for The Odyssey's Signed First Editions Club.

These are: T.C Boyle's The Women, Thrity Umrigar's The Weight of Heaven, Paulette Jiles's The Color of Lightning and Reif Larsen's The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet, which is taking the publishing world by storm and apparently the editor paid oodles and oodles of money for it. That doesn't always mean it's a terrific book, but I remain quite hopeful.

Unfortunately, today, as I'm trying to plow through these four novels and make decisions within the next few days for the March and April selections, a galley copy of Stieg Larsson's new novel, The Girl Who Played With Fire, lands on my desk (ok, fine, I squealed like a pig with delight when my co-worker said it had arrived and had to grab it before my boss saw it, as we are currently in competition for who loved his last book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo more.) I read 25 pages during my 20-minute lunch break today and I am going to have trouble going back to the task at hand.

Hmmm, what else do you need to know about me immediately? Oh yes, I never received a proper education in grammar, and therefore make tons of editorial mistakes. Apologies.
My husband came up with the title for this blog as he insists that this is how I will meet my death. He might be right.

That's all for now and I promise a couple of actual book reviews in the near future.

Buried