It's true. I've done it again. No, I haven't gone off to Las Vegas to work the penny slots and I didn't buy a dozen donuts at Big Jim's and eat them while driving in back alleys frantically wiping crumbs off of my shirt. My relapse is far more tawdry than Las Vegas or Big Jim's. Secrets, though, seek the light and so I may as well turn on the switch myself.
Here's my shame.
I'm reading another Patricia Cornwell novel. Not just another badly written novel by that unbelievably successful mediocre writer but another Kay Scarpetta novel. It's not the story. It's the character.
Of course Dr. Scarpetta doesn't come alone. She brings along her brilliant and troubled niece Lucy and her former partner Marino and her once alive then dead then alive again love of her life Benton or Wesley or whoever and her years of angst despite which she is able to come home from a day at the morgue and bake bread for dinner and pasta from wheat she has hydroponically grown in a window box.
She's the best. Too bad she appears in such stupid stories.
I'll keep you posted whether you want me to or not. In matters such as these I've got no pride.