Isn't there something satisfying about beginning to read someone's published diaries in a January, when those diaries begin in some other long-ago January? Dawn Powell's diaries have been on my shelves for more than a decade but suddenly, in this January, I felt compelled to begin reading them. It sat beside other
On a commute during which I know I’ll have trouble concentrating, I pluck one of the mysteries from the stack. Quercus, 2009; 2014 I’ve been discovering Peter May, Jeffrey Deaver, and Robert Galbraith this month. Beginning with The Black House, The Bone Collector, and The Cuckoo’s Calling. Respectively.
I’m slipping a variety of reading into my bookbag this month. It depends on my mood, when I’m travelling to and fro, and how much time I know I will have to spend on a bus or train, or whether it will be calm or chaotic. Nick Bantock’s The Trickster's
Are you still there? If so, many thanks. It’s been quiet around here; I realized that my database had tripled its allotted storage and was refusing to hold even one more byte sometime in March, and the oh-so-smart-coder-types have only recently gotten things back in working order. Many thanks to
June has been a month of dabbling. It has also been a month of magazines (and for good reason). The only book which has consistently made an appearance in my bookbag? A Game of Thrones. More than anything? I've been reading short stories. Alice Munro (but you knew that), Audrey
