Writing

Last night the radio station we are always tuned into ran an interview with Lynda LaPlante bringing back memories of my life in New Zealand.

The Library, a donation by Andrew Carnegie, stood on the corner at the other end of my street.  Reading has always occupied much of my spare moments, and when a busy Mum of five children I mastered the art of reading and peeling potatoes, at the same time.  OK, sometimes a little skin was left on the potatoes but I have it on good authority that the skin holds many vitamins.  It was not inattention that resulted in zebra-like potatoes, but my thirst for knowledge, or escape from potato peeling.

There was a time when I had read everything [I was interested in] book on those shelves.  The librarian, a woman half a decade younger than me suggested I read Lynda LaPlante.  Mmmmm ... I picked a couple off the shelf and read the blurb.  I put them back on the shelf.

Why?

For a start her name put me off ... quite a high faluting name, and her topics were of little interest.  I looked for other authors.

Sorry Lynda LaPlante, I misjudged you, though I still don't think I will read your writings ... I like a gentle escape from this world of seemingly [according to the media] increasing tensions.  But Lynda LaPlante, you are a delight.  Your hour on the radio was a hoot ... you have researched your topic to grass roots, and your sense of humour shone through. 

Is there a moral to this little tale?  Maybe, maybe not ... maybe never judge a book by its cover?  Or an author by her name!