Ever notice how Nyquil gelcaps are the same color as those little mermaids that bartenders sometimes attach to the rim of your glass? And when the medicine hits you, it’s kinda like being plowed under by a wave ~ a big old comfortable tingly sort of wave.

I’ve spent the past several days swimming in oceans of Nyquil. Once in a while, not always ~ actually, almost never ~ but once in a while, it can be pleasant to be sick.

It happens when there are plenty of Puffs Plus, a neverending supply of Nyquil, your good clean pillow and warm blanket, and a little stack of books you’ve had on your to-read pile for a while. The kids are healthy, but fearful enough of catching whatever you have that they suddenly discover the phrase, "Never mind. I’ll get it myself." And if you have a craving ~ say your heart’s desire is a potato of the sea from Staggering Ox ~ all you have to do is voice that craving and it magically appears before you (following, of course, the 5-min. round trip drive time).

A person could get used to that kind of sickness.

If only the person’s to-read pile did not include The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd.

I had heard so many good things about The Secret Life of Bees from people whose opinions I respect tremendously. So why didn’t I pick The Secret Life of Bees instead? Well, quite simply because it wasn’t one of my options when I signed up for yet another book-of-the-month club (with free tote!). Anyway, given the raves about SMK’s brilliance, I figured I was safe with TMC.

Nope.

It’s been a while since I actually screamed, "NO!" at a book. I think I may have actually spanked the text at one point, but that may have been part of a Nyquil-induced dream.

The thing is, I almost *never* dislike books. I can get into almost anything. I really can. I’m gullible ~ I’ll believe anything I read without asking questions. And I’ll always be able to find something to enjoy in almost every story.

But this book just made me angry. It made me cringe. The main character was pathetic, the dialogue was clunky, and by page 10, I was tired of hearing the phrase, "I thought about. . ." Ugh. And so many things were simply glossed over, in a la-di-dah, la-di-dah way.

But I kept reading.

Because you know how they say that the character traits that bother you the most in other people are the ones that you probably suffer from yourself? Like if your mother-in-law’s passive aggressive nature makes you want to peel your fingernails off, then you might want to gaze a little deeper into the mirror, senorita, because you’ve probably got a little passive-aggressive going on yourself?

Well, I admit it: I’m guilty of doing almost everything in my own fiction that drove me crazy about TMC. I’ve written clunky dialogue, I’ve had pathetic, unappealing characters, I"ve glossed over, and Lord knows I’ve typed that dreaded "I thought about" phrase more times than I care to remember.

So thank you, Ms. Kidd (Ms. Monk Kidd?) for that little awakening.

And thank you, Mr. Irving, for writing A Prayer for Owen Meany, which I’m just diving into and am loving on a whole new level of love.

And thank you, Jesus, for the Nyquil.