Now, I know what you're probably thinking: as holidays go, Thanksgiving ain't so much about the loot. To that, I say, it's your bad planning, not having a birthday that coincides with the tastiest holiday o' the year.
But I'm not here to taunt you with tales of my Dedicated Pumpkin Pie (made, spectacularly as always, by my culinary genius of a wife, who is also insightful enough to recognize the great injustice that is watching this, my favorite of pies, being devoured by scads of undeserving non-birthday-having pretenders-to-the-holiday while I look on helplessly) or of my tasty, tasty cheesecake (the box pictured above, which was again crafted by said uberwife, who then stocked it with scores of delicious and unpronounceable cheeses from our local fromage-monger). Nor am I going to mention the snazzy clothes, bevy of music, or stack of DVDs I've been the happy recipient of on this tastiest of birthdays. This is, after all a writer's blog, and mentioning any of that here would be no more than gloating, really. No, instead, I thought I'd talk about the books.
It was a light year, this year, book-wise (see assorted sundry other presents above), but what it lacks in quantity, it more than makes up for in quality. All three books are ones I've been dying to read, and they span several genres, which guarantees a book for any mood. Said book-loot is as follows:
Songs of Innocence, by Richard Aleas
Anyone who doesn't think Charles Ardai's pseudonymous debut Little Girl Lost was one of the best PI tales in recent years is, quite frankly, off their nut. (Off his/her nut? Man, we need us a gender-nonspecific singular; that just sounds awkward as hell.) This, his follow-up, promises to be every bit as good. I'll be shocked if I don't devour it in a sitting.
Four and Twenty Blackbirds, by Cherie Priest
A while back, Jennifer Jackson, Agent Extraordinaire, posted a link to this post on Cherie Priest's blog, and I've been reading ever since. This, her debut, sounds like a fantastic tale of gothic horror, and I've been dying to get my hands on it. Right now, I'm reading Michael McDowell's Blackwater (one of Katrina's faves), so I'm primed for some more kick-ass Southern gothic. Also worth noting is the cover's freakin' beautiful.
The Golden Compass, by Philip Pullman
Okay, all right, I'm a bad book-geek. I admit I want to read it 'cause the movie trailer kicks wheelbarrows full of ass. Sue me.
So there you have it. I may be a year older, but I ain't complaining. After all, I've got loads of stuff to read...