neglect.

It occurred to me, as I walked around with my head in a book yesterday, that I haven’t updated on reading this summer.  Score?  Me, 18.  The boys, 6.  Not that we’re competing, but if we were, they’d be in the dust.  There is apparently no incentive I can either afford or feel comfortable giving out that will make them read. How?  Why?  This just seems cruel.  But, for your reading pleasure I offer up these fantastic books you must get your hands on:

I don’t know why it’s fuzzy, but you have to read it.  It’s so good you’ll opt to wet yourself just to avoid having to put it down long enough to use the toilet.  Justin Cronin’s The Summer Guest.  Go get it.  Are you getting it?  Go get it.

I fell in love with her when I read Still Alice, but this one made me want to marry her.  You could borrow mine, but I’m still trying to wipe the drool off it.  It’s that good.
This is lighter.  But still so good.  I’ve never been a fan of christian fiction, but I think that may have just been pride.  This is the first in a trilogy.  And since historical fiction is my favorite genre and since I love any information I can get my hands on that has to do with westward expansion and since I grew up wanting to be Laura Ingalls, this kicked off a frenzy of wagons west reading.  Including:
anything I could get my hands on by Mary Barmeyer OBrien, this trilogy by Jane Kirkpatrick, and a couple others.  
I’ve shelved Love Wins.  No offense, Rob, but I don’t want to talk about hell in the summer.  I want to talk about summer things and traumatic brain injuries and the Oregon Trail.  Maybe fall is more of a hell-reading time.  We’ll see.
This is me being real.  And saying you have five weeks left of summer.  What are you waiting for?

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