If I thought she did it because of lack of attention, I’d feel bad, but I knew that wasn’t the case. Actually, I didn’t know why she did it. Because once I finished whatever I was typing, she would trot off and lounge around somewhere else in the house. Lately I’d been finding her basking beneath a slice of sun that had taken residence for a few hours during the day across the bottom of Eric’s bed. But next week, she might take up residence on one of the barstools that surrounded my kitchen counter. As it was, it was getting harder and harder to write reviews on contemporary romances, so as endearing as J’Austen was, I needed to think. It wasn’t that the last book that I read wasn’t good; it was. The writer had a firm grasp of the English language, which was always a plus. I understood a few errors here and there — we’re all human — but when I had to stop and reread sentences throughout the entire book, it detracted from the pleasure of reading. The author had also researched her story, which I appreciated.
