I’ve struggled over the past few weeks to find something to read. I tried a new murder mystery series without success and went back to an old favourite to re-read but, for some reason, I couldn’t settle into it. I’ve borrowed Born or Bred from the library; it’s the story of Martin Bryant who was responsible for the Port Arthur Massacre in 1996 but I don’t think I’m in the mood for something harrowing.
In desperation, I turned to the Outlander series. I tend to avoid anything described as a phenomenon because I’ve found they’re often written to appeal to the prurient interests of middle-aged female readers who have some disposable income for buying future books.
Marilyn and I had started to watch the TV series years ago but lost interest after a while: maybe too many gratuitous sex scenes or, perhaps, I couldn’t tolerate the tortured Scottish accents a minute longer. In any case, we dropped it and haven’t thought about it since … until this week, when I turned to the first book to see whether it might hold my attention. I’m really enjoying it. I had to force myself to put it down and turn off the light in bed last night and was looking forward to reading some more with my coffee this morning. Maybe, I’ve turned the corner.
The author, Diana Gabaldon, was born in Arizona and was inspired by a character in Dr Who to set her books in 18th century Scotland. She expects the series to run to 10 books and I think she has just published number 9. I don’t know that I’ll last that long but I’ll be happy if I can remain engrossed until the end of Volume 1.
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