I keep reading all these advice columns for writers. (Really, I should stop. I know.) And one thing that keeps coming up again and again is that, for the love of all that is holy, we writers should never, ever say anything that might offend anyone at anytime because heaven forbid we should lose a…

Moby Dick by Herman Melville Dude, I wish I were kidding about this.

I’m doing it for the boobies, and you know I must really care because I’m going to wear polyester and stranger shoes, which is probably going to lead to some sort of fungal infection. Also there’s a chance I’ll have to wear a shirt with my name on it. There are women who can rock…

Trouble: A Novel by Kate Christensen A middle-aged psychiatrist and her soon-to-be-ex husband. Their adopted Chinese daughter. A has-been musician with a heroin problem. It should all end in a string of horrible cliches, but it doesn’t. I was up until 2 a.m. with it and back at it first thing.

Apparently CNN and its ilk are reporting that L.A. is on fire. It sort of is, but the greater L.A. area is approximately the same size as three or four New England states with D.C. thrown in. I live on the beach, which is almost never directly affected by wildfire. All I’m getting are record…

Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell Juliet is a friend of mine who has always written great books, but this has got to be her best. It’s just so much damn fun. It’s curl-up-under-a-blanket-make-some-cocoa fun. Buy it. Read it. You’ll be glad you did.

I look like crap, but I want you to know it’s the sea lion’s fault. I live right up against the docks that circle the marina, providing a convenient place for millionaires to park their sailboats and for sea lions to spread unrest and dark under-eye circles across the land. Oh sure, they look cute…

Queenpin by Megan Abbott Megan Abbott is the new hotness in retro noir crime fiction. It’s possible I’m not cool enough to read this book. I might have to pour myself a scotch and take up smoking and wearing fishnets before I go any further.

After my posting yesterday, I received a note from my favorite uncle, so named because he’s the only one with the same twisted sense of humor and, therefore, the only reason to think I might actually be biologically related to these lovely people who feed me Christmas dinner. Apparently some other stuff is floating around…

This is how I’m going to die. It’s my to-be-read pile, and I must admit it is significantly less deadly since I fell in love with my Kindle. The pile sits ominously – and yet enticingly – on my headboard, and considering Southern California’s habit of shaking like the devil, it will probably topple down…