I was Christmas shopping with my mother and she wanted book recommendations for my niece. Mom wanted to get Narnia, but the bookstore only had annoying editions with that badly glued type of spine that makes the book too hard to open without breaking the spine and then the pages fall out and bah!

Anyway, I suggested Angie Sage’s charming fantasy Magyk, plus one of my favorite childhood books, The Westing Game, by Ellen Raskin.

My love for this book bordered on pathological. There was only one book I checked out of hte library more often, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase. But ever since I recommended it, I’ve been anxious about it. This niece and I have nothing in common. Nothing. We annoy each other. My liking the book means nothing. But I will still be hurt, a little hurt, if she doesn’t enjoy it.

And that’s just damned stupid, on so many levels.