Oh boy. This summer feels like one long Christmas morning, or so it looks from here in early June. When I was a child, eldest of six, what I looked for under the Christmas tree was the stack of gift-wrapped books that was my big present every year. Dickens, Poe, the Brontes: My mother insisted I read only classic literature growing up, and later blocked any attempts by (well-meaning?) teachers to censor my literary choices. Perhaps this is why books have always seemed imbued to me with a glamour of Christmas paper and sedition. Even textbooks. Really.
The Five Acts of Diego Leon by Alex Espinoza; Ultrasonic by Steven Church; and A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar — Because MFA. (I read in The Atlantic that “because” may now correctly be used as a preposition. If I had not read Orwell, I might be less inclined to disagree, but … Nope. I hate it. For the same reason I hate the possessive pronoun “you guys’s” and also LOLCATS memes. Experiment concluded. I can haz sentence fragments.
Lela Rhodes, Pit River Woman as told to Molly Curtis; and The Morning the Sun Went Down by Darryl Babe Wilson — For research.
People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks; and The Night of the Mi’raj by Zoe Ferraris — Someone left them at my house and they look interesting and they’re almost brand new. I must save them.
The Lady of the Rivers by Philippa Gregory — Airplane reading while crossing the Atlantic to distract myself from imagining how deep and wide (and cold) the water is and just in case any of my 99% European DNA might derive from Luxembourgian royalty.