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dancingsingingI am proceeding cautiously with trying to read a little bit sometimes, because of the happiness I mentioned in my last post. My usual experience with books is that I have a hard time engaging in real life when I'm reading one, but since last time I was happier even *after* I finished reading for the day (and before I finished the book), I figure I'll read a little more.
I started reading Timmi Duchamp's new novel _Never at Home_ which seems good, judging from the first few pages. I have high expectations because of her other stuff, especially _The Red Rose Rages, Bleeding_, which was far more easily readable than the Marq'ssan series (which I also love).
I'm hoping to read _The Nourishing Traditions Book of Baby & Child Care_, too, but since that's not fiction I'm not going to write much about it here. Unless I find something totally fascinating and change my mind.
In my fiction queue I have _Seraphina_ by Rachel Hartman and _Embassytown_ by China Mieville. I found them both via goodreads and they were recommended highly by smart friends, so I have high hopes. Seraphina is apparently about dragons who fold themselves up into human shape and Embassytown, I understand, is about aliens. (I bounced off _The Scar_, but I think it's mostly because of all the cold oceany landscapes which I found not cozy enough to spend reading time living in and also because I had trouble liking any character much or understanding the point. I couldn't find any stakes to care about in there. But aliens! That's a whole other thing.) I put these two on hold at my library and should get them soon, since I'm always going there for my daughter.
In my "eventually it would be cool to read" pile I have _Redwood and Wildfire_, by Andrea Hairston. I actually ordered that one from Aqueduct Press a while ago, so it's in my house somewhere. I read the first couple of chapters, which I found riveting, but then got distracted and then misplaced the book.
But there! I all organizedly have a plan for future reading, which gives me a happy little glowy feeling. I suppose that if I find myself getting too engaged with fiction, to the point where I'm just annoyed with anything that gets between me and my book (like a certain adorable little tyke) I suppose I can always cut myself off again.
I started reading Timmi Duchamp's new novel _Never at Home_ which seems good, judging from the first few pages. I have high expectations because of her other stuff, especially _The Red Rose Rages, Bleeding_, which was far more easily readable than the Marq'ssan series (which I also love).
I'm hoping to read _The Nourishing Traditions Book of Baby & Child Care_, too, but since that's not fiction I'm not going to write much about it here. Unless I find something totally fascinating and change my mind.
In my fiction queue I have _Seraphina_ by Rachel Hartman and _Embassytown_ by China Mieville. I found them both via goodreads and they were recommended highly by smart friends, so I have high hopes. Seraphina is apparently about dragons who fold themselves up into human shape and Embassytown, I understand, is about aliens. (I bounced off _The Scar_, but I think it's mostly because of all the cold oceany landscapes which I found not cozy enough to spend reading time living in and also because I had trouble liking any character much or understanding the point. I couldn't find any stakes to care about in there. But aliens! That's a whole other thing.) I put these two on hold at my library and should get them soon, since I'm always going there for my daughter.
In my "eventually it would be cool to read" pile I have _Redwood and Wildfire_, by Andrea Hairston. I actually ordered that one from Aqueduct Press a while ago, so it's in my house somewhere. I read the first couple of chapters, which I found riveting, but then got distracted and then misplaced the book.
But there! I all organizedly have a plan for future reading, which gives me a happy little glowy feeling. I suppose that if I find myself getting too engaged with fiction, to the point where I'm just annoyed with anything that gets between me and my book (like a certain adorable little tyke) I suppose I can always cut myself off again.
