I have a friend who works at a bookstore, and as you might guess from a fellow who loves books and works at a bookstore, he makes a lot of impulse purchases. (Are they really impulse purchases if you’ve been staring at their covers day after day, shift after shift? It’s more like a Stockholm syndrome purchase.)
One of his recent impulse purchases was Michael Crummey’s Sweetland, which he proceeded to rave about for days on end, singing its praises to anyone and everyone who would listen, and, long story short, he’s now loaned it to me.
I’m a little nervous, because the last book he recommended me from eastern Canada (Alistair McLeod’s No Great Mischief) was a solid two out of five stars for me – just not my jam. So, uh, wish me luck. But I’ve heard great things about Crummey, so it’s going to be fine. Right? Right?