It’s 4:12 a.m. and I’m on page 133 of Leather Maiden by Joe R. Lansdale.
This is not uncommon, actually, this business of Joe Lansdale keeping me up at night.
I like his nuggets of digestible, chewable wisdom, like Flinstones’ vitamins, such as the opener for this novel: “When you grow up in a place, especially if your childhood is a good one, you fail to notice a lot of nasty things that creep beneath the surface and wriggle about like hungry worms in rotten flesh. But they’re there.”
Next, I plan to beat y’all over the head with Nalo Hopkinson. That’s a sledgehammer you may be more susceptible to, as–while Lansdale is strictly not SF/F*–Hopkinson is lovingly, delicately, most definitely SF/F. Be prepared to withstand the Raging Hoarde of my latest author crush.
*not the books I’ve read, yet. There is a timey-wimey Steampunky Weird West thing that I haven’t dived into.
