Despite the maelstrom of deadlines billowing about my desk, I still have time to flit between books like a literary harlot.
Right now I have five on the go, with some garnering more attention than others.
I am ashamed to admit that the scale of attention leans much heavier towards the fantastical than the academic, with the most dour entries languishing at the bottom, when they should really be on top.
The guilty parties first then:
Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer. Vampires. Emotional turmoil. Strapping young men with a propensity for shirt removal. Need I add more? This is guilty literary pleasure at its finest and is almost viral: until I finish this goliath bloodfest, there is no contender for the top spot of my bookish time.
Unspeakable Love: Gay and Lesbian Life in the Middle East by Brian Whitaker. Started off as a work-read, now an addictive, informative and utterly engrossing read. I read forty pages in 45 minutes at the weekend (laundry time). Enough said. Incredible.
Dracula by Bram Stoker. As above, but the original, the finest, and the perfect accompaniment to a night alone in a room facing pine-smothered hills accompanied by a howlingly cruel gale that whips the windows with passionate ferocity. If Breaking Dawn is a box of chocolates, then Dracula is eating Nutella with a spoon. A big spoon. From the jar.
The Return by Håkan Nesser. Since catching the original Wallander series I have had an insatiable craving for all things detective and Scandinavian. Admittedly, I also bought this book after a chance discovery. Nevertheless, I am determined to finish it by Christmas and find out who really did kill the recently released convict and athletic hero.
The remaining two are under review, so it is perhaps not most prudent to debate their virtues and vices here.
Nevertheless, I am juggling the books with horrendous commitment and shamelessly apportion all the blame to Meyer.
For her saga is simply irresistable.