The Death of My Reading Life
Over the month of November (and the first week or so of December), my reading life lay ill and dying. It had slipped into a coma. It's heartbeat was steadily slowing. The doctors had lost all hope. It would rally every now and then for a few pages of Anne Lamott, flickering briefly in the dark night of the soul but inevitably returning to the catatonic state from whence it came. This sudden decline towards death was brought about by several unrelated causes: NaNoWriMo, Thanksgiving (turkey has that effect on me), "possibly pneumonia", the depression that ensued when I realized I wasn't going to reach my NaNoWriMo goal, a brief but intense affair with online T.V., general busyness...you get the picture. But today--I rallied.
And read Chalice by Robin McKinley. As a brief introduction, I have an on going, deep seated love for Robin McKinley. It started when I was but a wee lassie, well, ish, and I read Beauty for the first time. Her retelling of Beauty and the Beast was perfection: intuitive, vivid, breath-taking, rich with detail but still subtle, true to the story while still being original. I wax eloquent. She deserves it. Since that time, I have purposefully picked up as many of her books as I can find, and she might possibly hold the title for Most Books by the Same Author on my bookshelf. So when I opened my birthday parcel from my wonderful oldest sister to find a Robin McKinley book, there may have been a bit of squealing and possibly some excited jumping. Which leads me to today. When I read said book and thoroughly enjoyed it.
One last short note, the Anne Lamott book that kept me going through the deep gloom of the last few weeks was Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year, as suggested by one of my faithful readers (Julie'uli'uli, you know who you are), and I thoroughly enjoyed it. There were so many moments of going "Yes! That's Exactly What Happened To Me!" Not to mention the fact that her son looks rather a lot like my Little Dude (it's the "porno lips") and they both seem to have an unquenchable desire to put their hands in other people's mouths. What is with that? Best of all, I could pick up Lamott, read for a few pages, and continue on with the craziness that was November, knowing that those moments of solitude and hysterical laughter would come round again.
One last short note, the Anne Lamott book that kept me going through the deep gloom of the last few weeks was Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year, as suggested by one of my faithful readers (Julie'uli'uli, you know who you are), and I thoroughly enjoyed it. There were so many moments of going "Yes! That's Exactly What Happened To Me!" Not to mention the fact that her son looks rather a lot like my Little Dude (it's the "porno lips") and they both seem to have an unquenchable desire to put their hands in other people's mouths. What is with that? Best of all, I could pick up Lamott, read for a few pages, and continue on with the craziness that was November, knowing that those moments of solitude and hysterical laughter would come round again.