Clearly there are differing views on what makes a good read as expressed on this thread. But one of the reasons I often feel reluctant to post what I'm reading is that the standards applied to the written word in the critiques here seems much higher than they are for, say films or television. Kurt Vonnegut may well be a writer with an order of magnitude more skill and depth than Brown or Larsson (my experience is limited to Slaughterhouse 5, the Girl With... trilogy and da Vinci Code, all of which I enjoyed at the time in different ways), but one could say the same about Ingmar Bergman vs James Gunn or Dennis Potter vs Steven Moffat.
For what it's worth, my last two reads were Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (a somewhat grim but comic take on body image and weight gain/loss in American culture) and then 'Surviving the Evacuation' - a self-published Zombiefiction effort from Amazon (technically rather unimaginative writing, but good immersive fun).
Because I am less aware of the craft of good writing than many, I tend to look for books that I can get lost in, which often means hitting the Richard and Judy Book Club and page turning popular fiction. I'd like to feel less embarrassed about that, but I struggle.
I truly have no shame when it comes to entertainment choices. Admittedly I was recently petarded by Dan Brown, a challenge I thought I was ready for, but sadly wasn't. Like trying to climb Everest in just a pair of candy-pink flipflops. I think many people put a lot of effort into reading stuff that bolsters their intellectual self-image. I can't think of any other reason else for someone to read an entire Martin Amis novel (and look what that wannabe
enfant terrible did this time). I fear my Ikea bookshelves couldn't support those weighty hardbacks bursting with groaning, overwrought prose. I can't do the entire literary genre, all those Bookeresque worthies leave me cold. I read a chapter of
Bring Up the Bodies and I couldn't help but think how much it would be improved by zombies. And I don't even like zombies. It's like being chased by shambling Morrissey fans. Anything that can be defeated by a spade or just walking reasonably fast is not a worthy adversary. But after about ten pages I was praying for zombies.
I'm reading
Nightmare by Stephen Leather at the moment because I figure what more does a man need while he's slowly pickling in the bath, wrapped in the heady aroma of Badedas (or as it's called in my house, Badass, and it's ace because it makes the water lurid green), other than a bit of devil worshipping tomfoolery. It's alright, prose occasionally clunks, and if the protagonist tells me he likes smoking once more I'll set fire to him. Also, Mr Leather, Brixton isn't an edgy crime-filled ghetto where people are scared to go. I bet he lives in north London. Reminds me of the Dennis Wheatley novels I used to borrow from my grandad when I was little. I remember taking one to English class and the teacher being horrified. I suspect not from the plot. I was pretty much parented by Hammer Horror and the Devil.
