I finally finished book seven of the late Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, A Crown of Swords, on the bus this morning.

This one wasn’t that bad. It might even be one of the better, but it’s still mostly sheer bloody mindedness that’s driving me to slog through this. I think I’m half way through the series.

Jordan still (can I say ‘still?’ he’s dead, after all) writes about capital R ‘Romance’ with a most irritating and unrealistic seriousness. Sort of like a teenage virgin, D&D enthusiast taking refuge in old tropes to compensate for his inability to find a real girl who will let him touch her boob (over the shirt, of course). Thankfully, he at least lacks the chauvinism of Piers Anthony (who also liked his romances to be ‘Romances’ with a capital R).

And I get to trade in the book for some store credit at Capitol Hill Books. Since I have exactly zero intention of ever wading my way through this again, I don’t need to keep them in my library. Better to trade ’em until I have enough credit to get some classic pulp from the basement.

Of course, I’m also taking the bus home again this evening and I don’t have anything to read…