We all have our little pleasures in life, and one of mine is sifting through the Book sections in the weekend papers. I'm always looking for something new I might want to add to my reading list (not that it really needs adding to!), or perhaps I'll find a good gift idea for some of the readers on my Christmas gift list. Best of all, is the chance of finding a new book by an old author, every word of which I relish hanging upon.

These days, however, the search is not only often frustrating, but increasingly dark. It starts out sweetly enough with the featured first line from Robert Parker's Now and Then. No one does sweet and innocent wise-guy with a touch of class like Spenser, and the brief preview of Parker's always snappy dialogue leaves me adding Now and Then to more than one list (including my own).

It's a good start that's sadly short-lived. Next up, The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold. With the words "blueprint for matricide" in the title, I certainly was forewarned, still, I read on. It seems poor Helen's mom is nuts and Helen certainly has more than her share of insanely sound reasons to snuff poor mom with a pillow during one of her more irritating moments. Now, we have the delightful opportunity to spend the rest of the book flashing back over their dismal mutual histories while following Helen's flight from the consequences of her act. Or something like that.

I'm trying to think...on what dark, dreary, cold winter's day would I consider this just the tale to fill some empty hours? Beeeeppp!! Somewhere in the back of my mind the bell goes off signaling a supreme lack of desire to wade into Helen's sad world. Perhaps this book should come with a prescription for Prozac. Next!

I flip the page. Anne Enright's The Gathering is described as "an unsentimental journey though woman's grief, memories", and the first three words of the review are, "The Irish wake...." There's even a picture of a cemetery. Beeeepppp!! Sure, it won the Booker, but already I'm at a funeral and I haven't even bought the book yet. Next!

Two clues: the first word in the article's title is, "suicide", and the first sentence of the review goes like this, "Life is cheap in Kennedy's Brain, Henning Mankell's multifaceted novel about diseases of sexual transmission and conscience." Next...Please!

A book by Alan Alda; oh goody, another celebrity taking perfectly good paper (and advances) away from hard working unpublished writers. Sure, I loved M.A.S.H. Didn't we all? And I always enjoy his acting, but really, do I need to know the things he overheard while talking to himself? He should tell Woody Allen, they can make a movie, he can star and I'll come see it. I'll even spring for the Junior Mints. Next!

How about a biography? Something stirring and inspiring? Hmmm.... Young Stalin by Semon Sebag Montefiore. Something tells me, no matter how promising things may appear at the start, this one's gonna end badly.

Okay, so The Devil in The White City has been sitting unread on my book shelf for far too long, and there's a biography of Alexander Hamilton I slog a little further through every time things get slow. (Really, he was a fascinating guy, but the book is the size of five pound fruitcake that hardened into a doorstop years ago-can you blame me for taking it in bits and pieces??)

I'm about to give up when, over in the corner, I spot Sybil Downing's Regional Fiction recommendations. It's The Hearts of Horses by Molly Gloss. Right there in the first paragraph it's described as a "superlative story of tough, smart independent women" set in the western Oregon in 1917. A western-I loved Lonesome Dove, and that's only the tip of the iceberg of how I feel about westerns. I add it to my list.

Now was that so hard? You wouldn't think so, would you? But I can't help wondering what's up with the publishing world-what's up with the world in general-when a detour into the book section feels like clinical depression! Winter's dark enough. Let's hope my next visit brings a glimmer of springtime just when I need it most!