About a year ago, I was reading Christina Stead’s For Love Alone (1945) and it was such a gush of words that it was almost intoxicating; I found myself ordering a copy of The Man Who Loved Children (an earlier novel, perhaps her best-known overseas, in which I’d stalled decades ago) and finished reading it before the leaves fell from the trees. It helped that Bill often mentioned ways in which Stead’s own life experiences surfaced at various points in the novels, because if ever the actual story flagged, thinking about her writing held my interest.

Stead landed in my stack originally when I fell for the Virago Modern Classic imprint and because her books (like Rebecca West’s, Storm Jameson’s, Nina Bawden’s and Molly Keane’s) were readily available second-hand, I collected them with more dedication than I read them. That was a good call, because they’re notoriously hard to find now. And now is when I need my own copy of Letty Fox (1946), her sixth of twelve novels: ready to reread, with Bill and Bron, to mark Stead’s birthday this year on July 17th. (I’ve read just one of each of the other writers’ works.)

Another Virago author, Olivia Manning, is also a gap in my reading experience. Her works don’t appear second-hand very often here, however; not until last summer, did I find a copy of the first trilogy in her Fortunes of War epic. When Mme Bibi and I collided in comments on Jacqui’s review of Manning’s second trilogy in that epic, we resolved to begin reading The Balkan Trilogy (1960; 1962; 1965), starting this month (the second volume in August, the third in October).

Manning lived through WWII and I’m very curious to see how her work fits with other wartime fiction currently in my stack, like Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross (1934) which recounts Hitler’s becoming chancellor and the Nazi party claiming a majority in the government. Recently reissued by Persephone Books, I was thrilled to find it sitting on the shelf of the national bookseller here…those classy grey covers just don’t make it ‘cross the ocean very often.

Also this month, I’m reading Joyce Carol Oates with Bookish Beck. For me, this was something I’ve wanted to undertake for years, but with every year that passes, the overwhelmingly prolific Oates seems to add more books to her bibliography annually than the average Canadian reads annually. It’s become ever-more daunting, but waiting wouldn’t make the list shorter. Rebecca is writing today about her own reasons for reading Oates, in particular one novel of hers she’s wanted to read for some time.

My own experience of Oates resides in Rape: A Love Story (2003), Faith of a Writer (2003), Faithless: Stories (2001), Black Water (1991), and Marya: A Life (1986). With another author, five books’d be substantial: with Oates, it’s .04% of her oeuvre (not including books for children or plays). I’ve started with her first book, stories—By the North Gate (1963), and I’m planning to read The Assassins: A Book of Hours (1975) too. Just the first few stories have already changed the way I’ve been thinking about her writing, and I’m curious to see how discussing different Oates books will go (rather than choosing one novel to read together).

So—three writers mostly unfamiliar, who will be in my stacks over the coming weeks. With thanks to those who share my curiosity in these works: the only thing better than a reading-project is a reading-project-shared. (If there’s overlap in our TBRs, let’s make plans!)

Also in the stack for June are some writers whose work I’ve enjoyed previously, with new books or reprints.

I read katherena vermette’s debut novel, The Break (2016), when it was her first foray into fiction (having enjoyed her poetry) and now it’s a trio of stories about that family; I’d like to reread so the other books are fresh in mind before I finish the series and read her standalone, Real Ones (2024). She writes about the neighbourhood where she grew up (the North End of Winnipeg, Manitoba) and I particularly love the way she manages multiple perspectives in her work.

More often, here, I’ve written about another Métis writer, Cherie Dimaline: her short stories, her young adult work, and her witchy bits. Where vermette appeals as often for form as character, I expect Dimaline to entertain, to hold me in story. Earlier this year she received the 2025 Neustadt Prize for Children’s Literature, and that’s where I have a gap to fill: with Tiger Lily and the Secret Treasure of Neverland and Into the Bright Open (retellings of Peter Pan and The Secret Garden), as well as her Funeral Songs for Dying Girls (2023).

And, finally, one of my Must Read Everything authors, Richard Wagamese. I’ve written about his non-fiction, his spiritual writing, his novel Medicine Walk, and novellas. But I’ve missed some memoirs and novels along the way. Also, when I read his first book, Keeper ‘n Me, I thought it was a memoir, so I’d like to reread (and take some notes this time too—his stories just seem to unfurl, and I find it hard to pause). How he writes about connection and severance is touching, and although he explores this in the context of Indigeneity he strikes a universal chord.

This month I will also read the final volume in Québécois author Michel Tremblay’s Mont-Royal sequence of novels: it’s bittersweet. On June 16th, I’ll have more to say about reading Oates, and on July 14th, I’ll post about reading the first in Québécoise author Marie-Claire Blais’ nine-book-long cycle, Soifs. (It’s just one sentence long, so that should be simple enough; except it’s also nearly three hundred pages long. #bookmath)

Feel free to join, if any of these appeals to you, or share some of your own reading–whether now-ish or soon-ish.