I am speed shelving along in order to maybe get a few moments to write. This kind of intense, high energy work always makes me a bit high strung. Add to that the fact that our chronic temperature control problem has the genre stacks at a humid 81 degrees (I like to think of it at this point as a chronic Property Manager problem, but it could be a building design problem. I'd just like to know who i can safely blame!). And add to that the fact that my cart, with its "In order" magnet on it, is only sort of in order (again, who's to say that the person who put this cart in order didn't look feverishly for a magnet that said "Sort of in order" only to be rushed to the hospital with heat exhaustion before they could find one?). My ire is raised further by a forced delay to fix someones confusion over the fact that "Andersen" and "Anderson" are merely homophones, the important part here about homophones being that they are spelled differently. When I finish untangling these I grab the next book and my ire crests. This book does not belong in romance, it belongs all the way back at the start of the mystery section. The author is Arnaldur so it's way back. Normally this would be a less terrible journey, but in this crushing heat I could easily collapse, and, separated from my life sustaining cart, perish amongst the dry and barren Hillermans. As I fume at this costly error of sorting I notice the book title. It is Outrage.
I so love it when the book titles talk to me, tease, echo, cajole, suggest. Instantly I calm down. Outrage indeed. I peacefully shelve out the rest of my cart. The books can be so charming sometimes.