Shorthand for “Did Not Finish.”
First of all, it was so big. When it was mailed to self at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig, she couldn’t believe how big it was.
Two English cities (London and Oxford) later, she was still just on p. 21 and it looked like she’d be lugging this book to Cambridge.
Which then led to her asking the crucial question: Is this big fat heavy book that seems well written but doesn’t have a single character self feels she knows (though why should she know them? They’re from rural Wisconsin, for heavens sake!), worth the shoulder strain? Despite fantastic Stephen King blurb on back cover?
The answer, after yet another frustrating evening reading about dogs, was no.
So she’s moved on to an English mystery, Missing, Presumed, which has a very interesting title, much more interesting than the book self just finished reading, Dead Letters. Titles do not, obviously, say everything because Dead Letters turned out to be a fascinating read.
The front cover of Missing, Presumed (which was mailed to her from Kenny’s Bookshop in Galway) shows this:
72 Hours to Find Her
The first scene is a blind date which is very pedestrian but the main character is so lonely that she sleeps with the guy anyway.
Will this woman turn out to:
- be a self-hating alcoholic?
- be facing misogyny in her (police) department where she will undoubtedly turn out to be one of only two, at the most three, women detectives?
- harbor a deep, dark secret — incest? murder? Or something never before written about in the 101 mysteries inspired by Gone, Girl (which self never read)?
And will the missing really be dead, or just pretending to be dead, in which case would this be similar to the book self just finished reading?
Whatever. Self needs Missing, Presumed to be interesting for at least four hours: the length of the bus trip to Cambridge.