I have never read Shirley Jackson, and that is entirely my fault. I'm old enough now to know better, to know that there are some things in this world that can't go on being missed.
Well, I'm not being entirely honest. I've read "The Lottery," just as mostly everyone who has taken an undergraduate English course has. And I enjoyed it. But I went no futher. It was in my primer, alongside "Hills Like White Elephants" and "A Rose for Emily." But I went on to read Hemmingway, and Faulkner. But Jackson, despite her elegant and eerie prose, got left behind. With the publication of "Let Me Tell You," a new collection of her unpublished short stories, I hope to resolve this. I've devoured her inspirees, Oates and King (and I'm sure many more that live snugly on my bookshelf) but I've yet to really taste the source. It will go onto the reading list now.
* * *
Cherry blossom festival day here in DC. Will be shortly heading down to see what of the blossoms remain - we've had some rain. I almost feel guilty going; I've got things I need to work on here (working on my query letter again, sending that letter to literary agents, writing in general). But I guess there is always something to work on. And that's the danger.