New in paperback last month, I just squeaked in with my bought-in-hardcover read of Nalo Hopkinson’s Blackheart Man. I wanted to read it for fun—no notes—and carried it around in my stack for most of the past year, while other books nudged in line in front. The opening chapter
Most of the time, I turn to a story for some sense of security. For an explanation or a way to orient myself. If I’m not sure how to think about something, how to feel about a situation, sometimes reading about it in fiction has allowed me to temporarily
The Ursula K. Le Guin Prize for Fiction lodged in my mind because I really loved its inaugural winner: Kadija Abdalla Bajaber’s The House of Rust when I first read it. Bill and I read it again earlier this year, while anticipating the announcement of this year’s shortlisted books.
Past the mid-point of the reading year, I notice that there are some books I finished reading some time ago, lingering. Just, around. Left in innocuous places as though I just finished reading them there. Finally, when I found a place for Khadija Abdalla Bajaber’s novel (on the shelf
