Registration for #RWA11 opened today, and it seemed like everyone on my Twitter feed was registering and booking their hotel room or debating registering. I felt all D: because I’m not going. I don’t actually care about the conference, per se: I’m not a writer or an aspiring writer so a lot of the workshops aren’t relevant to me except in an academic sort of way; I don’t need the free books — given the size of my TBR, more free books would be ridiculous. But. But the people! So many people I "know" via Twitter or other online venues are going to be there! And I’m going to miss the opportunity to meet them!
Poking around, checking for new releases to buy or pre-order, I have not found much of interest. SEP has a new book out today that appears to be well-liked by the rom-reading community, but I stopped reading her several books ago, and even if I were inclined to give her a second or third chance, the price of the ebook is ridiculous. February doesn’t seem to have many great offerings either: the exceptions are the new In Death book and Carla Kelly’s inspirational (which I’m kind of ambivalent about). Jaci Burton’s Play by Play will be out in early February, too, and it is one book that has been completely sold by the cover art. Call me shallow.
My reading slump seems to have accelerated. It’s the 18th of the month and I’ve only read three books. Three! The only thing that is remotely like a silver lining is that since I’ve read so little, it’s been relatively easy to post about each book.
Erin Brockovich (of movie and class action fame) is now writing fiction? Legal(ish) suspense? Uh, okay. The curiosity factor might make me pick it up at the bookstore, but the hardback format would have me either skimming it in the store or waiting for a used copy from Paperbackswap.
The Biochemist broke my brain. Or caused me to break my brain, depending on how you look at it. We were exchanging emails about a potential fic for me to write when the conversation veered into the NYC pop/punk music scene of the late 90s. Ray Person + Gabriel Saporta = brain exploding. Just the thought of the pair of them with their pimp shades…I can’t even.
Dear Melissa Etheridge, I’d love to see you as St. Jimmy on Broadway during your one week run in February, but I don’t think it’ll happen due to scheduling issues. This makes me very, very sad, because I think you’ll rock the dissolute, seductive, threatening St. J. in a way that’s completely different from Tony Vincent and Billie Joe Armstrong’s presentations of the character.