I stayed up late last night reading the book I started the other day. I mentioned to someone in a comment yesterday that I didn't think I would finish it, because it hadn't "dragged me in " yet, but it dragged me in last night, and I had trouble putting it down.
It is a somewhat complex novel about an African American labor and delivery nurse who has the baby of a white supremacist die under her care. The author has the nurse part down perfectly--you can tell she did her homework, but the story bothers me. There is a pivotal moment where the nurse doesn't act like a nurse, and I'm not sure if it is a plot point, or something else. I'm still not sure I will finish it, but I will read more, for sure.
I don't like wrestling with novels. I like to be sucked into the world and be a part of it without thinking too much about the writing. Reading something good is like a form of meditation for me. Reading something bad is intolerable.
On my way into the house I noticed that our first iris has bloomed, with many more about to. I meant to go out and take a picture, but forgot. I'll take one tomorrow. Instead, I have a triptych of shadows.