And now, a minute with Deaconess Jane

Christmas vacation (I refuse to say "Holiday Break" or "Winter Holiday") is more than half over. What. A. Drag. Only four more days before I have to go back to Hell. But since being off for a while has helped the sinkhole of depression in which I find myself . . . somewhat, I will try not to dwell too much on going back.

Anyway. While having coffee this morning at Barnes and Noble, my friend Gretchen and I were talking about--what else?--books we'd read recently. Since she is so much smarter than I, Gretchen reads about twice as much as I, and about twelve times more nonfiction than I. But we do read a lot of the same books. Case in point, The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz. We agreed that Horowitz nailed Conan Doyle's style, but Gretchen insisted there was something missing. She didn't finish the book because of it. I finished it, but was disappointed that I figured it out a third to halfway through the book, from one line of dialogue from a minor character. Very un-Conan Doyle. Who ever figured out one of his Sherlock tales? As I have reflected on it during the day, I have decided that what Horowitz missed was Conan Doyle's supernatural quality. There was always something otherworldly and unsettling about his Sherlock Holmes cases. I think that, coupled of course with the fact that no one figures out the end of them on first read, that is what makes Sherlock Holmes the endearing, enduring fictional character that he is.

Why on earth that was what I chose to blog about after a very long, dry, silent spell, I do not know. But the bright note is that the depression is sucking me down into the pit just a little less right now, so I actually CAN blog. An improvement over the last few months, when all I've managed are a few brief Facebook posts. There is the promise of a silver lining. I just hope that returning to Hell next week doesn't tarnish it. Pray with me.