Tinker to Evers to Samuel Johnson.

I got into a spirited conversation yesterday with a friend about reading. Even toyed with the idea of starting a book club, whatever that means? We both talked about our shared love of fiction and basic distrust for those poor souls who never taste of its bounty. You know the sort, boring clods always racked around some tedious tome of tipping points and dull economic theory.

When crafted with skill, fiction delivers a dollop of verite and wisdom regarding this whole life experience business that one could never approach with a clinical rehash and nonfictional reciting of mere fact. Plus they offer no mental escape for the passenger.

I come from a family of readers, and excellent writers. As I have proudly stated, my mother Adelle Rhoda Roberts Fisher Rosenberg was an editor at a pulp fiction house when I was young and turned it into a publishing behemoth. And I would proof for her. She had the Edge and the Executioner by Don Pendleton and Murphy and Sapir's Destroyer and a bunch of other books, which I was required to read and correct in galleys. I think that the early immersion gave me a taste for meter and syntax. Many of the writers became family friends. Pinnacle even had a porn line called Beeline and I remember sneaking a peak or two at the lurid tales. Looking back and with the benefit of age and experience, I would say that 95% of the literary output from Pinnacle was total crap.

My sister Barbara and brother Buzz read a lot. Barbara, whose birthday was yesterday, tends to Elmore Leonard type gumshoe mysteries. Buzz, whose birthday is next week,  will recycle the same copy of Semi Tough or All creatures bright and beautiful for three or four decades. But he is always reading. As a kid the family had a love for Patrick Dennis, Roth, Le Carre, Salinger, Bruce Catton and Dan Jenkins and a whole range of writers. Humour was always good. We were the odd family (that's an understatement) without television for a long number of years but a huge library, which was eventually donated to a school. One of my weird literary passions was reading about the French revolution and my earliest nickname that stuck was Robespierre.

Sister Liz was publishing poetry at a quite early age but I can't vouch for the quality, it being a tumultuous time in her life, after the unexpected death of a fiance and the resultant breakdown. She introduced me to science fiction, Delaney and Anthony and Niven and maybe even my favorite, Zelazny.

Anyway, we were talking about reading the other day and I realized that it has been forever since I read a decent novel. This frigging blog is keeping me from reading. Feeding this cyber outpost a steady diet is a yeoman's task. But it does allow me to write regularly and I am told that through the sheer act of repetition, one is bound to improve.

My problem is finding someone that I like to read. I find someone I can stand and I devour their every written word like grasshoppers in an Iowan wheat field and then I am stuck again. Currently my favorites are Arturo Perez Reverte and Annie Proulx. Ace in the Hole by Proulx was the last great book that I read and I would give a lot to be able to capture her unique insight into life's eccentricities and pecadillos.

I love mysteries, especially hard bitten stuff of the 30's and 40's. Nero Wolfe, Inspector Boney, Runyon, Hammett. I like Melville's Inspector Otani character. I toyed with the thought of writing a series once, the  main character being a crime solving art and antiques dealer who unravels his mysteries with equal portions of a stunning intellect and an immense reservoir of charm.

Speaking of which, you commenters have been an indolent bunch lately. Kerry, practically non existent, except for a very occasional provocation, Roy always good, and Grumpy my ever faithful Sancho Panza. The rest of you are content to merely lurk and visit and it's certainly fine but the echo in here is getting pretty loud and I can talk to myself in the shower. Perhaps my newly hawkish political stance has frightened some of you. Ne'ermind but your thoughts are appreciated. I am rarely mean.

I was actually honored and lucky enough to sell an object to a very famous novelist from the south this month, the one who voiced her lack of appreciation for blogging during our initial meeting. It would be so easy to send her one of my short stories but humility, probity and the innate hierarchy of things keeps me from clicking the send button.

I have discovered a midwestern pod of very able writers on Facebook, and our online conversation has proven most satisfying. Continually sharpening our literary knives, and our collective efforts destined for the furthest reaches of cyber deep space, never to be retrieved. Conservative and liberal but all able to craft a plausible argument.

If any of you are interested in joining a book club and explaining to me the function of a book club, I am all ears. Or we can do it on the blog and just talk about what we are reading if it is any good. It is a warm sunny day and I need a good book.