My sister Becca got me addicted to Agatha Christie over the summer, while she was getting herself addicted. Ever since then, I've been reading about Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot basically nonstop. My Aunt Karen added to the joy of Christmas reading by lending Becca about 25 of her books.
This lady astounds me every time I pick up a new book, every time I turn a page. Even though I should be pretty wise to mystery books by now, what with my extensive Sherlock Holmes and Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew readings, she throws me for loops like you wouldn't believe. I should be wise just to her writing now, too, but I'm sure not.
My triumph is that I made a correct guess once about who the killer was--I was incredibly stoked and almost woke up Becca to tell her, but decided against it. She's now a Christie connoisseur, and was excited for me, but also said she'd gotten four right in her 35-some-odd books she's read.
Not only has Christie written mystery books, she also did a book of plays with stage directions and everything. It made me tempted to try my hand at them. I'll let you know if I ever do so.
