This was an odd little month for me. Terribly unfamiliar. Administratively, I was – for the first time in 12 years – not working. At all. My own little slice of sabbatical – I think
Life works in mysterious ways. But you know who else does? Me. Because I did not set out to read only books written by women and about women this month. I wish I could tell
Ugh, February was such a bummer. The kind of month where my headaches weren’t dramatic enough to justify total system failure, but persistent enough to feel like a personality trait. I discovered, quite unintentionally, that
January has a very specific kind of grief. A patient one. It’s always felt less like a month and more like a mental state. Like standing barefoot in a cold room, holding last year’s memories
I started this little ritual in January with one fuzzy idea in mind: that if I kept track of what I read every month, I might learn something – about books, about myself, about how
I don’t know what kind of reader I’ve become lately. I used to go about this with the somewhat unshakable belief that a really very good book would reward good attention, that if I just
