My review of Kate Christensen’s The Great Man appears in today’s Philly Inquirer.

Deadlines, interviews, and other obligations keep me away from Reluctant today. In the meantime, stay tuned for the exciting prospect of seeing no new posts for the next two and a half days! That’s right. I promise you no new content until Monday. Where others might promise you several blog posts today, I take comfort in honoring my pledge of nothing. Because aside from work, there is, of course, some living to do.

And speaking of which, if you aren’t listening to Dr. Dog right now, you’re missing out. Have fun, folks.

The pattering pelts now hitting my window remind me of long rainy days as a teenager getting lost in mammoth books that nobody else I knew read. I never cared much for the rain in San Francisco. That city was more the natural domain of fog and inconsistent sunshine trickling through ever-shifting clouds. But on the East Coast, rain, thunder, and lightning makes as much sense as it did during those rare days in Sacramento. The five boroughs collectively represent a milieu designed for such weather. That it comes crashing down with such Hollywood gusto during both the summer thunderstorms and the autumn list from the heat is a tribute to its beauty and its fortitude. Alas, this rainy day romanticism comes at a great cost. I am now contending with the worst ceiling link I’ve ever experienced.

Dear Reader:

There isn’t a day that goes by in which your name doesn’t escape my lips, even if I don’t quite know who you are exactly. Although I’m sure they’ll work out the kinks before they send you this message. Humor me. This is boilerplate. And it sustains the illusion that you and I know each other or are capable of having a conversation beyond the almighty books that separate us or serve, in their rightful way, as a kind of surrogate restraining order.

When I immerse my smooth legs into the sudsy veneer of my bubble bath, I wonder why you can’t be there with me traversing the soapy filament. You rock my bathroom environment, [insert first name here], because maybe you are those bubbles. If you have five o’clock shadow, your stubble might bristle against my goosebumped flesh at the end of the day. Not unlike the bubbles. I know you slide your hard-earned money across the smooth surface of the bookstore counter to purchase my books, and I can confidently divine that you would exercise the same fastidiousness in sliding your way across my counterpane. Assuming, of course, that you can pass the intelligence test.

I should warn you, [insert first name here], that I am a married woman. But my four ventricles will beat hot and heavy for you if you do not cower at my great intellect and if you can willfully abdicate your masculinity, your pride, and your thoughts on the mortgage you are now paying in an aggressive game of tennis. You’ve read Double Fault, yes? Well, let us quadruple fault and find folly in two universes. Let us not talk about Kevin, unless your name is Kevin. [Note to editor: Remove last sentence if recipient is named Kevin.] I am sure you come from a perfectly good family, but, like Peggy Atwood, I do not suffer fools gladly. So please come prepared.

Love,

Lionel

(via Bookninja)

I’m concentrating most of my fiction energies on the novel, but Garth Hallberg somehow thought I was an apposite fellow to write a story set around this photo. You can find the result here, along with short shorts from other contributors.