The itch to blog has returned.
Mostly I want to review the books I’ve been reading. Not that there have been that many but I’d still like to share my thoughts with the internet public.
I had dreams of writing actual criticism. The sort of essay / critique that you might see on Strange Horizons but with a few more gags and less quotes from the source material. But I just don’t have it in me. My brain, filled with the ongoing calamities of work and children and being a mostly loving husband, means that when I actually have free time, well time other than reading, I’d rather be playing Fifa 13. (My Career Pro, imaginatively named Ian Mond is playing for Man U as a Striker and has my features… if I were a zombie).
Also I look at all those nice review sites and see how they spend time putting up a picture of the book and a detailed description of the plot (that hasn’t been stolen from Wikipedia) and information on the publisher and where you can buy the novel and, etc… and I just can’t be fucked.
I just want to tell you in 250 words or less that I read this book and it was shit. Or great. Or middling. Or one of the great disappointments of literature.
Maybe rather than crap on about what I want to do I should, you know, do it.
Fine. OK. I’ll stop whining. I’ll review some fucking books.