Cheated. I had a whole day to read, but my two-day delivery of A Discovery of Witches didn't come through. The rechargeable batteries ordered at the same time, did. But the book, not so much. So, as I amused myself by cleaning/straightening/planning while waiting, I thought about the nature of anticipation.
I am forever referring a book to someone; I have friends who know to bring their notebooks when we lunch because I'm evangelical about the books I read and love. A phrase or thought will catch me and remind me how much this friend might benefit or enjoy said read.
A Discovery of Witches wasn't a referral ... unless I count EW as a friend. But the premise -- even the font style and title! -- made me hungry for it. I spend a lot of time reading nonfiction and even more reading students (unpubbed) fiction. A real live book by a real live already-published author is like floating. I don't have to edit or remember, I can just experience.
The sad thing now is, I've anticipated this book for so long ... longed for it ... found time to just sit and read it (thanks AMAZON for messing up that schedule) ... that it's going to have to sweep me off my feet. Be mind-blastingly good. And that's unfair because it may be great, but not stupendous.
Like when a movie or TV show is oversold: you are told it's the funniest, best thing ever. Might have amused you more, before someone told you your sides would hurt, you'd snarf your drink, you'd weep you'd laugh so hard. But, perversely, you crack a smile and shrug. The overselling ruined it. Anticipation, built to a boiling point, can serve as overselling. Unfair, for sure. Nevertheless, I think that's where we are.
Until mail service resumes, I guess I am left with Roses, which I longed for last year, picked up at an estate sale, read the jacket copy and put on the shelf, unread. (And I know that whoever writes the jacket may/may not have finished the book, but still ...!) But it's me and Roses. Or more cleaning.
No anticipation necessary to learn that outcome.