Over the weekend, while taking care of Justin while he had the flu, I was able to take some time to read a novel.
It was a big moment for me, because my fiction reading skillz have been waning since my last two years of college, when I was taking in about two novels for school a week.
Since then, I've had an aversion to pleasure reading that I just couldn't shake.
But yesterday, after a trip to the local gay bookstore with Justin, I read my shiny new, pulp-fiction-y novel (which can be found at ANY bookstore, for literary populists), entitled "The Haunted Hillbilly" by Derek McCormack.
The story takes place in all of 128 pages and is a mixture of intrigue, unrequited love, Nashville Opry singers, and a vampire. The prose is tight and could be misconstrued as surgical and over-simplified if not for the rich precision in color, tone, and character that it imparts the story. Each sentence of narration is dense with purpose and meaning and makes more rambling prose look superfluous.
Check it out for a creepy, gripping read.