Live and learn, part two.
Title of the year.

On the appeal of true crime.

It was very weird to find that, while I recovered, the only book on my library pile that I felt like reading was a true crime book: I'll Be Watching You, by M. William Phelps. It's pretty standard true crime stuff: icky killer stalks women. Investigation ensues, criminal who thinks he was smarter than the cops proves he wasn't, is convicted, gets out of jail after ten years, kills again, repeat.

Phelps Why would this be something I wanted to read while not feeling very well? I have no idea. I've always found true crime to be a fascinating genre: it must sell, as it's published in handy paperback format, yet I never had anyone at the library ask me for help with selecting titles or finding the section. Are people ashamed of reading it? Have you ever seen someone out and about reading true crime, or do they mainly read it at home? Do primarily women read it or is that just an idea that I have? I don't know how to answer any of these questions, mind you. And I guess I can see why readers wouldn't want to talk about their predilection, but I don't know. I don't think it's any weirder to read true crime than it is to read any number of violent thrillers or novels. But maybe that's just me?

I don't have much else to say about this specific title. One of the killer's intended victims did get away from him, which was a nice twist for the genre, and which I found inspiring. Sometimes I'm shocked at what people can live through. Maybe that's part of the appeal of some of these titles too?