Most of the Kindle books offer you a free sample, which lets you explore totally bland books without paying the $4.99 being asked. Why such authors set a price at $4.99, I have no idea, unless it is to get dedicated friends to buy the book and leave good reviews and just maybe entice someone else to cough up the $4.99. That might be criminal since the customer would then be tempted to bang his/her head against the wall out of frustration. I doubt the person would worry about causing stupidity, seeing that $5 has already been handed over for an ebook of incredible ghastly storytelling, based, I suppose, on six positive reviews. After all, any book worth its salt has the occasional reviewer who will write, “Sucks!” or “Blinded me.”

Now, I am not talking about those books that are not proofread, let alone not edited; I am not talking about those books in which the author believes the story should emerge from dialogue minus any narration; I am talking about something that is grammatically okay, but, Oh God, something that is akin to paint-by-numbers writing. Try to imagine it – it’s more stimulating than looking at these novels. I say novel, because the short, old-fashioned Churchillian word “book” is far too good for them.

Am I in a bad mood? No, I am not. I can’t carry a tune, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to sing by myself. Just because someone has no flair for words does not mean they shouldn’t write, but, shouldn’t they offer their efforts for “free” and with a warning?

Those words is that post title sum up the past few days. However, I pulled myself together and put on my walking shoes and went out into the 86% humidity – yes, I’m proud of myself, I won’t deny it. My clothes are sticking to me, my hair is dripping sweat and tepid tea tastes so refreshing. It takes a little while to want the iced stuff again. Few things are as pleasurable as getting the job done and, then pacing slowly around with a mouthful of water being sloshed from one cheek to the other before being swallowed, while wiping sweat from your face with your shirt. It just doesn’t get much better than that.

I should carry a ball so I can spike it when I get home. Ah, endorphins, got to love them.