In which excessive TV viewing is confessed

A Study in Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle
Well, guys, it’s
happened.
I’ve fallen in love
with a TV show based on a book series, before having read the books themselves.
I know.
Shameful.

Sherlock, I hold you fully responsible for my fall. You seduced me, you minx of a
BBC production.


So when I finally read a Sherlock Holmes novel, I was
seeing Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as Holmes and Watson. Normally,
I’d be writhing in pain at the thought of doing this backwards—watching before
reading—but in this case, I’m just rolling with it and feeling pretty darn content.

Nothing but one
more sign that society’s gone to heck in a handbasket: a natural-born reader is
TV-addicted when it comes to Sherlock.

But there’s kind of
a happy ending here… When I read A Study
in Scarlet
, I adored it. It made me happier than I ever could’ve imagined. And
part of it is because I was envisioning my two friends from the telly in the
lead roles. But also because I was discovering what aspects of the story were
used in the TV series, and I know: it’s wrong to watch before reading.

I feel like I
should apologize, but I shall not.

Instead, there’s a
very real danger that I may become a minor little non-serious, merely adoring Sherlockian. 

(Dang! Should’ve kept that hardbound Sherlock Holmes set I bought as a new
librarian, convinced I’d read and love them. Finally, after more than a decade
of not reading them, I hauled them off to the library book sale. Some lucky got
a deal on uncracked bindings.)


The only thing that
mystified me—and my friend, too—was the Mormon interlude in the middle of the
book. Too long, too rambling, too weird. Other than that, this was one darn
happy reading experience.

And to think I
expected stodginess…  

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