I’ve been thinking about my last post, and it’s got me feeling a bit annoyed.  It’s no big time annoyance, like underage Chinese  gymnasts.  More like itchy sweater annoyance.

The thing is, I love talking about books, but the critic role doesn’t fit.  Mostly I just want to love the books I love, and I want to talk and write about loving them.  Think of me as books’ grandmother.  I just want to put their artwork on my refrigerator, bake them cookies, and brag about them to my friends.  If books fall short of my expectations, I think I’d rather ignore it.  And what’s the harm in that?   From now on, I’ll write about books I’m reading that I love, books I’ve read that I love, and books I want to read that I think I’ll love.  And I’ll leave the critiquing to a mean old mom somewhere.