Mere moments ago, just as I inhaled a slice of freshly baked bread, I finished Scarlett Fever.
For the record: I will not be content without a third book in the series, if only for the prospect of more donuts used as projectile weapons. It's a lovely image.
I love the way Maureen Johnson captures humor in her writing, nothing seems staged or unnatural, her narrators respond convincingly when faced with the absurd (such as in the case of Murray the tinkler...and Murray the doorman), and her novels never fail to make me laugh out loud at the circulation desk, in fast-food restaurants, sitting in a coffee shop, anywhere where my laughter would be something of a disruption or inexplicable enough to attract attention. In other words, I get stared at when my laughter brings tears to my eyes faster than that Christian the Lion video on YouTube.
It's like junior high but without all the dodge balls.
I think one of the major reasons Johnson manages to make me snort Wendy's sweet tea (I get the large, with tax it's $1.92 and well worth all the calories and caffeine) up my nose every single solitary time I read the "When Scarlett Met Murray" scene is the theatrical dramaturgy thing. If you know how to make a scene seem real on stage, I'm sure it wouldn't hurt when you sat down to write a novel.
Okay, my writing rant is over--I get this way because of the English degree; I really do try to control myself.
The bottom line? You really should read Johnson's books. I mean it. And with the sequel to Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes coming out mere months from now, what do you have to lose?