It's received lots of well-deserved praise, and I love it. Really, I do. But what I'm looking forward to reading even more is Let the Great World Spin, by Collum McCann, which a friend has promised to loan me on Thursday (Are you reading this, G.? I'm counting on you, girl.). So I'm racing through In Other Rooms, Other Wonders to clear space for the next fantastic read. It's not really fair to Mr. Mueenuddin, but I'm a mommyblogger and I don't have time to beat around the bush.
Why is that only three or four weeks ago I could find nothing to read and now I'm absolutely deluged with fantastic reading material?
Why does the literary universe taunt me this way? Why?