So, as those of you who have been reading this blog for a while may remember, I've been having trouble, the last year or five, with reading fiction. "Trouble" in the sense that I have been finding new narratives simply too mentally stressful to cope with (leading to the VERY WEIRD phenomenon of putting down a perfectly good book because I don't want to know what happens next). This has made me very sad, because reading has been my most favoritest thing to do since I learned to read at the age of three.
(
coffeeem, if you're feeling modest today, you may want to avert your eyes.)
I love Emma Bull's books. I've reread Bone Dance more times than I can count, to the point that, as with Watership Down and Dog Wizard and Gaudy Night, I have to ration my rereading because the words are wearing out. So the fact that Emma has a new book out entailed obligate purchase. And then I faced up to myself and read the darn thing.
And then, in the past couple weeks, I've read four more books.
I'm not such a shining Pollyanna-ist as to think the fiction block is gone for good, but I am really enjoying reading for pleasure in the meantime.
( Brief and spoilery--ESPECIALLY FOR THE PINHOE EGG--comments on my recent reading to follow. )
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I love Emma Bull's books. I've reread Bone Dance more times than I can count, to the point that, as with Watership Down and Dog Wizard and Gaudy Night, I have to ration my rereading because the words are wearing out. So the fact that Emma has a new book out entailed obligate purchase. And then I faced up to myself and read the darn thing.
And then, in the past couple weeks, I've read four more books.
I'm not such a shining Pollyanna-ist as to think the fiction block is gone for good, but I am really enjoying reading for pleasure in the meantime.
( Brief and spoilery--ESPECIALLY FOR THE PINHOE EGG--comments on my recent reading to follow. )