I'm reading THE LAST COYOTE, the fourth Harry Bosch book by Michael Connelly, and enjoying it as usual. Connelly writes non-fancy, meat-and-potatoes prose and still makes it lyrical at times. That's a neat trick. I started reading another book this morning but it might as well remain unidentified since I'm not going to finish it. It was by a fairly well-known, highly-praised author, but the prologue was about a brilliant and eccentric serial killer, and by the time I finished it I realized I just didn't care, so the book went back on the shelf. Maybe I just wasn't in the mood.
This was a library and errand-running day, but when we got home I managed to get some pages done anyway.