So last year I made vague, loose plans, and I kind of stuck to some of them, and that was fun. Reading is fun! This year, I’d like to drift more; no real specific projects or themes or plans or anything like that. Try to sample more widely and wildly; more fun reading, more serious reading. Just more reading, period. I’ve set my Goodreads challenge goal at 47, which is a personally absurd number that I only theorize is possible because I plan on embracing fewer longer-than-your-shadow-at-dawn books this year.
Which then of course I say that and—as one does to demonstrate one’s deep emotional and physical commitment to the craft of shabby-ass litblogging in 2018 (my god, it’s 2018)—I lift my fingers from the keyboard, and gaze contemplatively up at my TBR pile—which, yes, has already grown at a dizzying, luscious rate in the last few weeks—and I’m thinking, hey, maybe this is the year I finally actually read Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West! Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but I think I tried to start reading it a year or two ago, thinking it was a book I could coast into and out of like a fluctuating breeze. Except then after I read the first fifty pages some time passed and then when I next tried to pick it back up it was like, no idea, what is this, what are books, how do you read them, how do you read? What’s on Netflix? (Thomas the Train, that’s what’s on Netflix, when you have a two year old in the house. Thomas the Trainflix.) Nope: that won’t be the way to read that one. I’m going to need to buckle down and maybe even take a damn note or two and live inside it for a good long while and hope there’s still air out there to come up for by the time I’m done. So that may be my summer, my nice, light, refreshing summer reading that’s going to slide in to screw up my plans of reading 47 books this year or even like more than five books, who knows.
So yeah. No real plans, but maybe one plan.
And okay I really do want/need to keep mixing more non-fiction in, just, in general. I didn’t like that slump I hit last year. Things got ugly. If making myself smarter helps address that, well, here’s to actively trying not to be a complete idiot all the time.
Aaand well, yeah, getting in deeper with more indie presses. There are so many of you out there! I want to love you all. You are worthy of love.
Aaaaaaaand yeah I totally screwed up “reading more women authors” last year. Gang, I have no idea what it is. Every damn time I turn around, it’s like I’ve been in a fugue state, reading books by dudes. Says the guy who is right now reading a Philip Roth novel. I can say that many of my favorite books that I read last year were written by women? There’s that? I guess? I don’t know.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand yeah I’d like to keep getting more poetry into the mix. I do like poetry. I do. I’m just still wildly uncertain how I’m supposed to read it, these days. The way I attacked Saint Friend last year—late at night, standing in the middle of the living room, sipping beer, reciting bits under my breath, like some kind of total weirdo—seemed to work, though it still took me most of the year to actually read the whole thing. (Yes, I finished it New Year’s Eve, just so I could put it on the read-pile before the ball dropped. Don’t judge me. However much I may deserve it.)
And so yeah. Okay. I’ve made no plans but some plans have made me. I’ve offered them no reason to feel I feel committed to them in the slightest, though, so, really, we’ll just see what happens.
I’m also going to blog about every single book I read this year.
(…Until I don’t.)