I’ve noticed that, other than British authors, I don’t really branch out much to international authors and I’m not entirely sure why.
I’ve hit the biggies – like Conrad, Dostoyevsky, Murakami and so on, but I’ve been trying to remedy that and include more foreign authors in my reading. It’s slow going right now as I keep getting distracted by books I’ve been planning to read by British or American authors (darn you, Donna Tartt!).
I’m not sure what draws my attention from non American/British authors – I suppose that it could be that I perceive that there’s cultural differences that will limit my enjoyment of their styles. In any case, as I’ve said, I’m trying to do better.
I must admit that I’m weary of memoirs.
Celebrity or politicians, okay, I get it. Not so meh. I can understand why they’ve written memoirs, good or not. If you a celebrity or a politician, you’ve actually done something of note. You’ve some combination of talent, luck and drive and most likely, you’ve seen – and probably done – some amazing/terrible/horrifying things. I can see why you’re writing.
Normal folks who’ve just lived through something, though? That I usually roll my eyes at. There’s something about this that annoys me – the idea that you, normal human, have something of note; that you have a story worth telling. We all have a story and the idea that you, normal human, are more capable and deserving than the millions of others with a story to tell makes me laugh.
I mean sure, I could write a memoir of my own, chronicling my own life-long struggle with Major Depressive Disorder, my time as a patient in a psych ward, my two months in intensive outpatient therapy and my (ongoing) recovering. I simply doubt that there’s much about my own story that makes it unique from all the millions of others who’ve had the same experience.
Just try and tell me that photo isn’t awesome.
You couldn’t, could you? When is New Book Haul ever not awesome?
NEVER, that’s when.
I had lunch today with my dad and because he’s a lovely person who knows that his daughter is a slave to the written word, he decided to celebrate the fact that his daughter actually left her books at home by giving her more books!
Best Father Ever, Y/Y?
So now, in addition to everything else I need to read (including those library books you see in the corner of my somewhat messy desk), I now have four new books. And aren’t they lovely little darlings?
I cannot wait to sink into their literary goodness.
Some books, you love from the very start. You have a seat, open the cover, turn the page and you’re hooked from the first word. The work consumes you, body and soul. When you finish, you feel as though you’re missing a limb. You’re missing something vital – those characters, those places! They’ve grown to be part of your very being and you’re left feeling bereft.
Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch was like that for me. I started reading a bit nervously, because I’d read so many reviews of the book and had heard so many people rail on about it, saying that it was overlong, overstuffed, overdone and overrated. I’d seen so many people express their wonder at it being a best seller and wonder “Why the heck did that thing win a Pulitzer?”.
That’s really about all I can say at this point, honestly. I never meant to be so silent for so long, but that’s what happened because life likes to be difficult.
I’ve been in the process of job hunting, which is never, ever fun and always, always a pain. Then I took on NaNoWriMo for the first time (and no, I didn’t win. More on this at a later date). The holidays came along and ate my life as well, so here we are.
As 2016 kicks off, I’ve made a promise to myself to be far better about actually been active here and writing. After all, if I want people to read my blog, I should probably give them something to read, right?
So, I’m doing that. I’m gonna keep on keeping on.
Shortly (in a few days, perhaps?), there will be a post on books that need a second read before you actually like them. I’m working on a few other things as well – a post about a book I’d been avoiding for years but finally read and also a review of Katarina Bivald’s The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend, which I finished last year.
Most likely, while I continue book reviews and posting about books in general, I’ll also go into my own writing process and my trials and tribulations. Right now, I’m about 35,000 or so words into a novel. Only about 50,000 left to go!
So this is me saying mea culpa for the radio silence and promising that I’ll be better.