On a Pale Horse was number 27. I suppose I could always count lillibet's adaptations of Shakespeare's The Merry Wives of Windsor and of Agatha Christie's The Unexpected Guest as books, but that seems contrary to the spirit of this 50-book challenge. (Of course, I would count reading a play simply for the sake of reading a play the same as reading a book, so I suppose there is some hypocrisy there, and I have had to read through these two plays repeatedly and memorize large chunks of them.) I am currently in the middle of both C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves and Piers Anthony's Letters to Jenny. If I counted the plays, finishing just one of these would get me to 30. If I don't count the plays, then I'd have to finish these two books and read one of the quick reads I've got on standby, either Lloyd Alexander's The Black Cauldron or Susan Cooper's Over Sea, Under Stone. I hardly think it's worth it to push for this goal of 30, though.
Don't you just love made-up crises. Then again, most crises are made up, as life is just one big game and so little of what we stress about daily is of any real consequence in the big picture. (To get even more philosophical, while little we do is worth stressing about, almost everything we do matters. This is not a contradiction; it's part of the fun of the game!)