I confess. At every opportunity, every chance, I’ve been reading.
It’s all those Dick Francis books I brought home from the store. The only four I read in order are the four he wrote about the one handed detective, Sid Halley. All the rest have been gobbled up at about one every couple of days. It’s been a readathon here, and I’ve been loving it.
There are those who say his wife wrote these books until she died. There are a few volumes that came out a years ago and are really terrible, then there are the new ones that have both his and his son’s name on the cover. These are beginning to be really readable.
I always appreciate every person who donates a book to the Cancer Society’s Store. I take them all personally. Up the coast a ways, one of our stores no longer takes books. Perhaps everyone up there has a Kindle or Nook. Our patrons still read. And though we are supposed to be an upper end thrift store, I confess that sometimes I sneak books out on the floor that aren’t quite perfect. Those choices usually sell. High priced books don’t. Small things like cooking pamphlets don’t sell. Good mysteries sell.
Dick Francis always sells. My eyes are going to appreciate my finishing this series, but I’m going to be so lost when all those volumes are finished.