Oh, great. Now you have alcohol poisoning.
So I have been reading Anita Blake (at work!), and I just started Obsidian Butterfly, and in the middle of the obligatory scene where she’s on a plane and talks about how much she hates being on planes, Anita Blake just all of a sudden says,
“I was reading Sharon Shinn. She was an author that I trusted to hold my attention even hundreds of feet above the ground with a thin metal sheet between me and eternity.”
Sharon Shinn? What with the sparkly kinda-chaste beta-male romances? Laurell K. Hamilton likes Sharon Shinn? …I mean, do they know each other? What do they talk about? Their cunning plans to progressively suck slightly more every new book they put out?
Actually, now that I think about it, they’re pretty similar. It’s just that while Hamilton’s descent into self-indulgent crap led to freaky sex, Shinn’s led to saccharine domesticity. Same basic impulse. Okay, world makes sense now, I’m good.
The previous book, Blue Moon, had some plot in it, but the Badass-Detective-Work-to-Fondling-Bisexual-Werecreatures ratio has gotten on the wrong side of 1:1. Is this the point where I should be stopping? I note that I am only one book away from Narcissus in Chains, which I have heard is the Crazy Horrible Bad One.
(The quality of these books seems to be directly proportional to the amount of Officer Zerbrowski in them. I think his presence enforces some sort of exercise of self-control on Hamilton’s part. It’s hard to fit that particular character type into sexual fantasies.)
I also finished the seventh Anita Blake book today instead of doing class prep, and I am not proud. (I think she may have healed a wereleopard with the power of sex.)