Sneaking Lavender

When you mention that you are writing, suddenly everybody knows a guy who knows a girl who went to school with a guy who is on the NYT Bestseller list. In this case, some folks I know from the theater department at Centre mentioned Will Lavender, and less than two weeks later, I see on twitter that he’s doing a signing at my favorite bookstore.
And he writes suspense/puzzle-thrillers.
So what the hell. I’ve been pouring over my revisions so hard the words are starting to look the same, and my friends are telling me I really need to get out more. I also need a good book fix.
So to mourn the passing of Borders I cancel my Amazon order, brave the most hellish traffic outside of Boston (this road changes number of lanes depending on the time of day) and act civilized for a few hours. I bought my Dan Wells crack/heroin, and a first ed. Neil Gaiman that I didn’t have, DOMINANCE -the book being signed, and because there were only three left in the store, a paperback of the author’s first one, OBEDIENCE, which I started thumbing through in line-

-and could not put it down. I read at stoplights on the way home.
There are naive students,  a seductive faculty wife, and suspect professors with dubious motives, but broken enough to be fascinating, not cliche, and they never become more important than the plot, or the desperation to solve the mystery.
I’m desperate to solve it.
My husband had to take the book out of my hands and tell me to finish my revisions. I snuck chapters in the morning before he had enough caffeine to notice. I read in the bathtub. I begged the nurse, when she called my name to see the doctor, “just one more paragraph!”
Last night, when my better and balder half is distracted with pizza and a lot of beer, I hide and finish the book in one swallow.
It’s a twisty little ride; I figure out parts of it, but not enough to feel let down. Will Lavender writes like the bastard love child of Thomas Harris and Jane Smiley, babysat at an early age by M. Night Shyamalan. Multi-genre indeed: pretty prose, but with teeth, and sneaky clever.
I can’t even talk about it to anyone, because I don’t want to give anything away.
But I’m not opening the next one until I send off my revised MS. I’m not even going to peek at the jacket flap.

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