Working at a library, I’m used to not paying for books. Whenever I want something I just go to the shelves and get it or else put it on hold and wait a bit. It makes me wonder why I even bothered paying for all those books when I worked for bookstores all those years ago. (Probably because they gave employees a house account so we had to keep working there in order to pay it off: a modern-day version of indentured servitude. But I digress.)
There’s a very short list of authors I will plunk down my money for. Everything else I’ll happily wait on the hold list like everyone else. Those authors are:
Michael Connelly. George Pelecanos. Robert Crais just misses this list, but not by much. Lee Child used to be on the list until his latest release sucked; he is exiled until further notice. Don Winslow. Charlie Huston. (I’m currently tearing through Huston’s latest – not as good as Shotgun Rule thus far, but then I’m only halfway through.) Daniel Silva was off the list but is working his way back on – he needs another solid release to get back into my good graces. Bill Simmons.
And, finally, Megan Abbott. If you haven’t read Queenpin, get yourself to your library and snag it immediately, as it’s a sexy, smooth, brilliant, and nasty piece of noir as you’re ever going to read. On the strength of that book alone, Abbott has guaranteed my undying patronage. (By “undying”, I mean at least a three-book grace period.) Having not heard from her lately, I buzzed over to her site and was greeted by a blurb regarding her latest release, due in July, entitled Bury Me Deep, which sent me into spasms of anticipation. Talented writer? Check. My favorite genre? Check. Lurid-as-hell title and cover? Check and mate. Cannot. Freaking. WAIT. For this one.