It's not even noon yet, and already I feel like I've had a fantastic weekend. There's much I still need to do. Eat breakfast, go to the supermarket, jog, help my brother move some stuff in his house. But rare weekends like this, where I actually have two days that I can use, become precious.
This morning, before we got out of bed, I read another thirty pages or so of Lisey's Story by Stephen King. This is the book that actually appears to have had an editor touch it, and it's an improvement over many of his recent novels. My wife is struggling through Cell, which she says takes 110 pages to describe what could easily have been accomplished in less than half that amount. I've not read it, but when a devoted reader like my wife starts skimming her favorite author, you can be sure there's problems with the story. As for Lisey, the novel took about seventy pages to get to the real threat, but he took that time to cast out a few other story lines related to the characters. I respect King's love of the craft, even though he irritates me with his that/which problems.
So, dear reader, you see that for me a good weekend needn't be all sun and shine and lunar eclipse. Sometimes it can be simply a warm bed, a cup or two of coffee, and a book to read. At least until the baseball season starts.
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