Started and finished another tale, called "The Taking Tree". It started out as my attempt to evoke a Faulknerian (is that an honest descriptor?) ghost story, and ended up more like a retort to Shel Silverstein's abominable children's book *The Giving Tree*. Man did I hate that book (*The Giving Tree*, of course). The story, right now, is merely tolerable. I might deep six it, but I think it deserves another day in court. The opening is decently strong, I think the premise is good, but the middle to end are a little weak.
I've been reading quite a bit of late. Read *Bill the Galactic Hero*, a train wreck of an sf satire (owes more than a little bit to Voltaire's *Candide*) so full of horrible events, you cannot help but continue reading. Read Braunbeck's *In Silent Graves*, which scared the hell out of me with the first chapter and then descended into a bit of a snoozer for the remaining 330 pages. Le Sigh. Last night, I started Lawrence Block's *The Sins of the Fathers*, the very first Matthew Scudder mystery novel. At least that's what it claims on the cover. As I have read no other Matthew Scudder novels (or William Scudder, Betty Scudder, anyone Scudder) this is my first venture into any sort of Scudder country. So far, so good. A dark mystery tale. Perhaps I should bring waders, in case things get a little moist and dirty.
About flicks, I have to say, Dementers are wonderfully chilling, Stepford has nice jokes but shows some seams, and tomorrow the household is going to see an English comedy on the stage, which unfortunately shares a name with a talking baby movie.