Realizing a truth can be interesting.

It's slowly dawned on me that the novels I'm choosing to read have all been mysteries. It wasn't a conscious decision, but looking over the list of books I've read this year, there are only a handful that aren't mysteries.

I suppose I lulled myself into thinking I wasn't reading mysteries because they weren't the type of mysteries I had been reading, with police officers and private detectives. So much for branching out.

Still, I can't really complain about this, because if I didn't subconsciously sabotage myself into reading nothing but mysteries, I wouldn't have read the Julian Kestrel series by Kate Ross, or the Sebastian St. Cyr series by C.S. Harris. I wouldn't have read The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault, which gave me words like editrix. And sentences like this, on page 320:

I tried not to despair too much in the notion that this holding pattern of identical days might eat up life while I waited for weekends.*

I would have read the Marilyn Todd titles, but I wouldn't have remembered her if I hadn't read the collection of short mystery stories, which I only read because it featured a story by Kate Ross. (And let's not forget that the Marilyn Todd titles are mysteries.)

So maybe I should just accept that I like to read mysteries and move on. To reading another mystery.

What? It's not like I don't have a stack of them waiting for me.

*Sadly, I find this sentence to be closer to my life sometimes than I'd like.