- The Anthologist, by Nicholson Baker.
- The Believers, by Zoë Heller.
- Room, by Emma Donoghue.
- The Blue Stone, by Jimmy Liao.
- Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
- Anagrams, by Lorrie Moore.
- Hard to Handle, by Lori Foster.
- Train Man, by Hitori Nakano.
That’s all I read for October, and I’ve blogged so little — I wish I could have said more about Lorrie Moore, wish I could’ve lacerated Room, wish I could have written an ode for Jimmy Liao. But well, October wasn’t a very good month for me, all-around. Too many abrupt shifts, too many la-dee-dah Life ain’t so grand, kid moments. Too many hours trying to convince myself that it’s for the best that I not coagulate on the bed. I didn’t even like reading and writing so much. Basically, October was tres crappy in this corner of the Universe.
But I’m doing something about it. I’ve said this before: Posting shall resume. And verra soon. Because I realize that as crazy as the blogosphere can be, there’s a much-needed structure within this blog that I sorely miss. And I’m going back to that. To the reading, the note-taking, the marginalia, the Post-it flags, the color-coding, the scribbling, the sighing, the grunting. I need this groove.
It already feels strange. The past weeks, I’ve been doubting my ability to get back to said groove, or even whether to embark on an altogether new groove. I’ve been scrolling through past entries, asking myself how the hell I could’ve come up with all those words. I flipped through the pages of my notebook and wondered how I could’ve ever translated those into as-sane-as-possible rambles on this blog.
But I’ll get the hang of it eventually. I’ve got a lot of faith in my OCD-tendencies, and my book-love/neuroses. I shall overcome, etc. etc.