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It has been a rather long time since I've done anything but lurk on LJ with the occasional comment. The reasons have been mundane: work, children... Until they're older, ten consecutive minutes of active brain time will remain precious and rare.
I had to adjust the way that I read, and what I read, over the last while. I had, at one point in the fall, four copyediting and proofing projects at once, and I'm not quite sure how I managed to finally dig myself out from under it. It's preferable to where I find myself now, with no work at all, but I console myself with the knowledge that freelancing can be cyclical, and I've had an excellent eighteen-month run of steady work. At the same time, I completed only 41 books in 2008: a personal nadir. I bought 109 books. This imbalance, actually, provides an excellent snapshot of my stress levels, as I buy books at a more furious pace when I'm completely stressed. This list includes new books, used book, gifts, salvaged books, and library castoffs: I'm also not particularly fussy.
In December, I was feeling particularly oppressed by my lack of success in reading much of anything, and decided that I would read some fluff to try and kick me out of it. I started with Meg Cabot's The Boy Next Door, which was written as a series of emails back and forth, and which amused me greatly. I also thought that I'd try to read short books, to give me the illusion of accomplishment (more books read per hour...), and read Michael Faber's The Fire Gospel, as it had an interesting idea (academic discovers a lost contemporary account of the Crucifixion), but it fell flat on its face for me on a number of levels. The main character was a misogynistic (or perhaps just shallow and ignorant) academic from a fictitious university in Toronto, who steals a newly revealed scroll from a museum in Iraq, smuggles it back (you can see my difficulties right away) to Canada, translates it in a few weeks (I don't care how good a translator of Aramaic your character is...), sells the manuscript to a second-tier Canadian academic publisher because no one else will take a newly discovered eyewitness account of the Crucifixion (which the scroll turns out to be), but who manages to come up with a $500,000 (CDN) advance for a book the author can't get published elsewhere. Having worked for a first-tier academic publisher in Canada, I just about choked laughing at the amount of money named.
Well, I could go on, but I'd just keep getting worked up about it. It was short, so I didn't feel like I'd had that much time stolen from me.
Keeping in mind that short books give a sense of accomplishment to those perpetually stressed for time, I decided that I'd read a number of young adult books for the New Year. They were:
The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman
Slam by Nick Hornby
Shakespeare Wrote for Money by Nick Hornby (which was short, not a young adult, and a collection of book reviews by the ever-entertaining Hornby)
The Sunbird by Elizabeth Wein (**love**)
The Tale of Desperaux by Kate Dicamillo
The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman (never never forget that Pullman is unafraid to stick the knife between your ribs and twist...)
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie (wonderful, almost note perfect)
The Lion Hunter, and The Empty Kingdom by Elizabeth Wein (**love**)
Skellig by David Almond
This feast brought me to the middle of February, and helped to clear out the cobwebs and freshen the air. I moved on to Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin, which was fun despite being a medieval mystery. She was up front about the anachronisms, so they were easier to forgive. I just finished The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill today, which was fascinating and harrowing (slave ships...) and worth thinking about in detail for some time more.
And now it is late, and I have to get some sleep to prepare for another day of job hunting.
I had to adjust the way that I read, and what I read, over the last while. I had, at one point in the fall, four copyediting and proofing projects at once, and I'm not quite sure how I managed to finally dig myself out from under it. It's preferable to where I find myself now, with no work at all, but I console myself with the knowledge that freelancing can be cyclical, and I've had an excellent eighteen-month run of steady work. At the same time, I completed only 41 books in 2008: a personal nadir. I bought 109 books. This imbalance, actually, provides an excellent snapshot of my stress levels, as I buy books at a more furious pace when I'm completely stressed. This list includes new books, used book, gifts, salvaged books, and library castoffs: I'm also not particularly fussy.
In December, I was feeling particularly oppressed by my lack of success in reading much of anything, and decided that I would read some fluff to try and kick me out of it. I started with Meg Cabot's The Boy Next Door, which was written as a series of emails back and forth, and which amused me greatly. I also thought that I'd try to read short books, to give me the illusion of accomplishment (more books read per hour...), and read Michael Faber's The Fire Gospel, as it had an interesting idea (academic discovers a lost contemporary account of the Crucifixion), but it fell flat on its face for me on a number of levels. The main character was a misogynistic (or perhaps just shallow and ignorant) academic from a fictitious university in Toronto, who steals a newly revealed scroll from a museum in Iraq, smuggles it back (you can see my difficulties right away) to Canada, translates it in a few weeks (I don't care how good a translator of Aramaic your character is...), sells the manuscript to a second-tier Canadian academic publisher because no one else will take a newly discovered eyewitness account of the Crucifixion (which the scroll turns out to be), but who manages to come up with a $500,000 (CDN) advance for a book the author can't get published elsewhere. Having worked for a first-tier academic publisher in Canada, I just about choked laughing at the amount of money named.
Well, I could go on, but I'd just keep getting worked up about it. It was short, so I didn't feel like I'd had that much time stolen from me.
Keeping in mind that short books give a sense of accomplishment to those perpetually stressed for time, I decided that I'd read a number of young adult books for the New Year. They were:
The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman
Slam by Nick Hornby
Shakespeare Wrote for Money by Nick Hornby (which was short, not a young adult, and a collection of book reviews by the ever-entertaining Hornby)
The Sunbird by Elizabeth Wein (**love**)
The Tale of Desperaux by Kate Dicamillo
The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman (never never forget that Pullman is unafraid to stick the knife between your ribs and twist...)
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie (wonderful, almost note perfect)
The Lion Hunter, and The Empty Kingdom by Elizabeth Wein (**love**)
Skellig by David Almond
This feast brought me to the middle of February, and helped to clear out the cobwebs and freshen the air. I moved on to Mistress of the Art of Death by Ariana Franklin, which was fun despite being a medieval mystery. She was up front about the anachronisms, so they were easier to forgive. I just finished The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill today, which was fascinating and harrowing (slave ships...) and worth thinking about in detail for some time more.
And now it is late, and I have to get some sleep to prepare for another day of job hunting.
no subject
no subject
Sometimes when I'm a book grouch I go back and read stuff I've already loved: comfort reading. Is that something that you do? You've been working really hard on your own material, lately: perhaps you need something that doesn't make any demands, and that you trust to take you to a certain place in a smooth, sure way.
no subject
I've only ever reread three "books": First was Lord of the Rings (hence the quotes), second was Red Harvest (to study the plot for Child of Fire), and the third was Stein on Writing by Sol Stein (a useful book about writing! Imagine!).
But I read so slowly, and my to-read shelf is so full of bright and shinies (not to mention my f-list) that I can't bear to spend a couple weeks on something I've already read. Life, it is hard for the pokey reader.