I've had terrible luck with books lately—nearly everything I've picked up I soon put back down. In desperation I went to Borders tonight looking for something by Muriel Spark, whose The Girls of Slender Means I read and loved a year ago. I was hoping to pick up a copy of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, but I would have settled for anything of hers. Anything. But it turns out my local neighborhood chain bookstore doesn't carry a single book by Muriel Spark. If you like Nicholas Sparks, on the other hand, your selection runneth over. There were, I shit you not, one hundred twenty-three copies of various Nicholas Sparks books. Not that I stood there and counted.
If you have any book suggestions (don't fail me now, J Quizzle), leave them in the comments or shoot me an email at gruelfordinner [at] gmail [dot] com. Recommending Nicholas Sparks would be cruel, not funny.