Since I’ve become obsessed with Twitter feeds and RSS readers, I’ve had to make a concerted effort to get my hold-it-in-your-hands smut fiction fix and it took me a few weeks to read it, but the book was well worth sticking it out. I am immediately suspicious of all writers with an unhealthy penchant for Holden Caufield, but coming-of-age angst is inherently compelling and I vaguely recall writing a horrific short story in a creative writing class at UCLA that was a little more wanna be Salinger than “Portrait of the Artist.” 

As great as blogs and Facebook updates are, there’s still nothing quite as satisfying as curling up in bed with a good novel.