Finished up Julia Glass’ Three Junes tonight, while sitting outside listening to the cicadas. It was a charming-enough moment, so long as I didn’t think about the bedraggled mouse carcass somebody left on the deck.
Many times, I thought of quitting this book. In the third June, we meet up with a woman whose list of men is long and sorry and wrong. While weekending at a Long Island house with one of these men, and pregnant by another, nothing much happens.
Millions of us fight to get our manuscripts onto editors’ desks and this one makes it through.
Apparently, it was sandwich week at our house. After last weekend’s turkey/cranberry wonder, we followed up with:
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