I was not the only one making snowflakes last night, but Mother Nature is far faster at it than I am. I finished eight of them; she produced enough to coat my neighborhood with nearly three inches worth. I know this will invoke the scorn of folks in Buffalo or Boston) but that's enough to be messy. The real problem with Northern Virginia is that the temperature can hover around freezing, so we get that nasty melt and refreeze which makes things slicker. Getting to the metro was a slushy mess this morning. Overall, though, the commute was no real problem, and the metro was even fairly empty. Still, I wouldn't mind fast-forwarding to, say, March.
The snowflakes were appreciated, by the way. It's always odd to me how impressed people are with fairly simple things, but I guess if you don't know how to do something you don't realize how easy it is. Non-crafty folks don't even know you can just go out and buy glittery yarn, for example. At any rate, Alex did go all out on the decor. But we won't know the contest results until next week, when we have the Holiday party on the floor.
Things were quiet enough that I could leave early-ish, which means I get to spend the evening in perfect winter mode. The rocking chair, a cup of cocoa, and a good book - about all that's lacking is a roaring fire. The good book in question is 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith, who is probably best known for The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, a series I find thoroughly charming. At any rate, he met Armistead Maupin at a party and mentioned the idea of a newspaper serial to an editor and ended up writing this for The Scotsman. I'm about a quarter of the way through and it got me thinking about the problems of this rather odd genre.
I should explain that I first ran across Maupin in newspaper form and really enjoyed reading his Tales of the City that way. But the collected pieces were never entirely satisfying as novels. I like them, but there's a different pace to them than there is in more conventional novels. The problem is that something self-contained has to happen in every episode, so that each piece can stand alone to some extent. At the same time, they aren't independent pieces. Inevitably, one is best off not reading too much at a time.
Whch is exactly where I run into trouble, since my normal mode of reading is closer to chugging beer than it is to sipping sherry. I read fast and it is not unusual for me to read straight through a novel a day for several days in a row. And, while the back-cover blurbs trumpet the "can't put it down" aspects of a few books, not putting it down is how I normally read. Reading on the metro is an exception, of course, but even then I often finish whatever I was reading just as soon as I get home.
I'm trying to take more breaks with this book - making cocoa, handling the mail, maybe even taking a nap. But it's still a genre that will never entirely suit me, as delightful as the writing might be. And it is delightful. Consider this brief bit about two furniture restorers who join a gallery owner each day at a local coffeeshop.. "But Matthew sensed that there were unresolved football issues somewhere beneath the surface, as there so often are with upholsterers." I know nothing about upholsterers and next to nothing about Scottish football loyalties, but what a line!
Copyright 2005 Miriam H. Nadel