Because I keep my ear to the ground (in that I pfaff about on social media) I’d heard about Jessica Jones, a new Netflix show which was getting rave reviews in the US, before it was officially released.
Jessica Jones – the person – is a Marvel comic character. Apparently. I don’t read comics or graphic novels and have mostly stayed away from the superhero franchises, so I knew nothing about Jessica Jones before I started watching it.
The culprit is yet to be identified… but I swear someone in one of my social media networks suggested I watch a TV show called Lost Girl. And if I ever find out who’s responsible I’m gonna kill them. Well… at least rant a little.
Though I don’t read fantasy / science fiction / dystopian fiction I enjoy watching it and some of my favourite shows fall firmly into that genre.
However, I’m now reminded that—like my reading fodder—my enjoyment boils down to a number of factors. And #spoileralert… Lost Girl fails on several fronts.
The anniversary of my redundancy came and went this week without me realising. It’s probably a good thing as I would have felt compelled to do some sort of ‘then and now’ post. Don’t get me wrong. Leaving the life I was leading before was the best thing I’ve ever done, but I still have some regrets—things I wish I’d done differently. But given there’s no chance of me returning to 2012, here we are… ready to talk books and reading. Again.
At some point in the 1990s it felt like we were flooded with TV shows based on novels on my bookshelves. From Ruth Rendell’s Inspector Wexford to Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse—we were offered an array of quality police procedurals. And of course… leading the pack was Prime Suspect, based on the book by Lynda La Plante.
I understand La Plante herself was involved in writing the teleplays for series one and three, but the fact the series stretched to seven seasons was really a testament to the awesomeness of Helen Mirren in the lead role.
I wrote about my love of books long before I started reviewing them with any vague sense of commitment. Indeed one of the first posts on this blog in February 2009 was a book review of sorts.
Over the next four years I randomly wrote about my favourite books or series of novels reflecting everything from Jane Austen to Robert B Parker’s Spenser series. Another which made it on the blog remains one of the very few books to which I’ve awarded 5-stars and is possibly still my favourite book. Ever.
I haven’t participated in a Wordless Wednesday link-up for ages, so figured the time was ripe. Or perhaps overly-ripe… But here I am nonetheless.
And I thought I’d share some of the coping mechanisms I’ve been employing to keep me sane. I’ve posted some personal stuff recently which has probably given you the impression I’m teetering on the edge. Well, thankfully I’m not that bad (at least during the day 😉 ) but I’ve developed a few interesting crutches.
Spoiler Alert: This post contains some references to 'how the show finished up'.
The Gilmore Girls seems to be on everyone’s lips of late. A few people I know were already revisiting the show (which first screened between in 2000 and 2007) when it reappeared on Australian TV screens a couple of months ago—encouraging me to take a casual look now and again. (Which soon became every day!)
Thankfully our local TV station isn’t breaking the show between series, so in just a few months we’re already up to season four. And even though I watched it a decade ago and know what happens, I’m loving the time I spend each day with Lorelai and Rory.
In my little mind Nicholas Sparks novels (and movies based on his novels) have a certain stigma attached to them.
Because I am a woman of the world, however (well, in that I indulge in social media), I know many—mostly women—LOVE his books and movies. I also suspect there’s the occasional guy who doesn’t mind being dragged along to a Dear John / Safe Haven / Best of Me type flick. However, the problem with offering such popular schmaltz is that some people— like yours truly—shy away from his work because of the aforementioned stigma. (And anyone who knows my tastes knows I’m far from a literary snob!)
