New York Times, with its encyclopedic knowledge, had been a
source of delight (or dismay) for as long as I can remember. A couple of months
ago, I came across a blurb in the Books section that highlighted a novel by
Martha Grimes. Having never heard of the author prior to this, the short
paragraph peaked my interest, and I kept an eye out for its release. Little did
I know there were 23 books preceding the latest Richard Jury adventure. I was
going through a rough patch at the time, and drowning myself in quirky detective
novels, rather than facing my problem seemed to be a viable solution. The more
stress I was under, the quicker I went through the books. There were times when
I went through a book in a day. Not because the books were amazing, or
educational; but because it stopped me from overthinking. After my 8th
book, I was released from my impending stress, and I let go of my maniac
reading.
Two weeks ago, I picked it up again, and I am now 75% into
my 15th. The characters became part of my every day life, if only
because I spent more time with them, than with anyone else. Finishing the
series became a symbol of finishing in life, as I was never great at seeing
things through. I would start them off brilliantly, boasting would be accomplishments.
Lists were created, and there were many. Yet as soon as a rough patch occurred,
it was hasta la vista, mi amigo. Hence my renewed rigor to finish the series. If
I can finish all 23 books, surely I can, oh, I don’t know, exercise, sleep at a
reasonable time, excel at work, and more importantly, write every day?
Ah, the possibilities.
Only 8 more to go.
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