I must admit I'm not persuaded the literary world needs another Becky Bloomwood. But who am I to judge? For one, I put Dave Eggers to the side in order to indulge in Sophie Kinsella last weekend (and now I'm paying for it as I race through the pages, through memories of Ethiopia and Kenya and Atlanta, to get to the end by Sunday). For two, I'd more likely take this featured novel to Europe this summer than, say, Anna Karenina. (Almost over it, people. Almost over it. One day I'll reveal myself as something other than an intellectual neanderthal, honestly.)
In other unnecessary trinkets, Holly's Inbox has been updated entirely for its merchandising book-selling powers.
And, I found this today, which is not altogether uninteresting if not related at all to books.
Okay, must get going, back to the marathon read-fest.