What I’m doing here

Anyone who hangs out here will discover that I don’t often write
about books I despise. Or even books I find mediocre. Usually I’m writing
something like, “Darn good book.”
“Why?!” you may ask. “Does this nincompoop love every dang thing
she
reads?
Has she no discernment?”
Oh, but, no. That ain’t it.
The thing is, if I don’t like a book, I usually don’t finish it (unless
it’s assigned reading).
And if I’m iggis about a book, I might finish it, but then I usually stay
mum. I could, I suppose, damn them
with faint praise, and actually, sometimes I do.
But here’s the thing: I just feel mean when I write or say something snide
about a book; that’s some author’s baby that I’m maligning, and that really
ain’t so kind.
So, that having been said… 
Here are some tells that I’m not all that thrilled about something:
– I mention it only in passing (sometimes with a bit of a tone)
– It appears on my Shelfari shelf over on the right column there, and I
never write about it. (Though: you’ve got to give them some time before you
really give up on them—I got a big old backlog of postings that are just all
lined up, just waiting to be set free.)
There’s plenty-o-stuff I downright despise, and usually I just stay quiet
about it. (But, usually, I do something even more cruel: I set it aside and
ignore it forevermore.)
The secret, evil truth. It has been spoken.

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