The world won’t stop hovering

The world won’t stop hovering

Very late last night, right at the heels of some kaiju-attack-inspired wishful thinking re Monday, I realized why I’ve been so resistant to Susan Cain’s Quiet. It never really made sense to me, why I wasn’t all snuggly with the book, when it could very well be a manual against (erm, for?) the world. This book was on my side—who loathed the fact that the world won’t calm itself enough, won’t shut the fuck up, more than I did? Sure, my shorthand was to liken it to the Chicken Soup books—a whole lot of rah-rah encouragement without a lot of meat behind it; distressingly patronizing as though it very well knew that introverts will always be goddamned little weirdos—but I couldn’t quite quantify all that grump. The answer, it struck me, lay in Monday and all its myriad ills. [Continue reading.]

Bibliophilic housekeeping, plus Lethem and Munro—and beetles

Bibliophilic housekeeping, plus Lethem and Munro—and beetles

It’s like musical goddamned chairs, my mood and my reading material—one moment I’m all eager for awkward crushing (Rainbow Rowell), the next I’m hungry for some straight-up murder shenanigans (Gillian Flynn); one day I’m bingeing myself with the best of historical romance (Courtney Milan, Mary Balogh, and so on) and before that day even ends I’ve tossed the ebooks into a dark corner of my hard drive to reach for comic books with lots and lots of explosions in them. [Continue reading.]