This morning's mix of snow and freezing rain seems to be typical of Wisconsin's winter this year -- which is (unless you're trying to get somewhere) a good thing. We've had years of way-below-normal precipitation that have left us with something of a drought. This winter: back to what used to be "normal." And then some. (Madison, for example, has already topped its snowfall record.)

Given that it's not a bad thing to be housebound (and fingers crossed that powerlines remain intact), what is there to do (besides the long-delayed and much-needed house cleaning)? Read, of course. So I'm going through a recent influx of DC trade paperbacks and new titles -- and finally resuming a novel that events had interrupted.

Last year, a small convention in Wausau introduced me to Patrick Rothfuss, who had the table next to mine and who had with him a small stack of his first novel, The Name of the Wind. He was great, and I happily took a copy, which I quickly started to read. And then life got in the way -- and the novel is 662 pages long. Yikes! So, after about 150 pages, I had to set it aside. I couldn't lug it along on my travels, thanks to its size, but I never moved it from its spot on my "to read" shelf, because it was tremendous fun.

And now it's winter, and I'm sort of snowbound, and last night I grabbed the book and settled down with it again. And that, in itself, should be noted. The book is so clear, so well-constructed, so memorable, so entertaining that the reader can set it aside and pick it up again later with ease. In fact, thanks to Pat's skills, what's difficult is to put it down. The brisk chapters pull the reader from one to the next with the yearning to read just one more before setting the book aside.

Be warned that it was created as the first part of a trilogy, so I don't think he'll be answering all the questions by Page 662. But I'm now at 304 and looking forward to Chapter 46.