That’s not really the title. The real one, like the book’s story, has blended with all the others in the Sookie Stackhouse series into a mixture so thorough that I will never recall the individual parts. The word dead is always in the title. Each begins with Sookie in relative peace. Then someone dies. Sookie is anxious and has issues in her love life. Then lots of folks die. Then Sookie hopes all will be normal again.
Still, I think I’ve read them all. Why? I dunno. Reading the books makes True Blood more interesting, and vice versa. The first few books were really interesting. Not that I remember anything about them, beyond a vague recollection of a sense of pleasure. I do remember that these early books were the anti-Twilight. Then I discovered they were ante-Twilight, from which fact I conclude that on top of being the star of the Worst Book Ever Written, Bella is a cheap imitation. These facts alone get the books big stars.
The author sort of fascinates me, too. She’s from Mississippi and now lives in south Arkansas. From the picture on the dust jacket, she looks like the typical good ‘ol southern wife, strolling into the church pot lock with some kind of casserole. Yet, she’s writing about vampires and werewolves and lots of sex and lots, and lots and lots of killing. More shocking than the carnality, despite living her life in the most bass-ackwards sections of the Bible belt, or more likely, because of it, conservative Christians do not come across very well in these books. She’s not unfair. Given how these types have reacted to everything from desegregation to gay marriage, how do you think they would respond to the news that vampires are real and live among us? I bet the first image in your head was not a welcome mat. All she’s done is extend their attitudes to a new area.
So despite the repetitiveness, I keep reading. Like John Grisham books, If I’ve finished something serious and need filler until the next real book, I know I can count on Sookie.