READ ALL ABOUT IT
Since 2012, I’ve been writing about books. And the act of reading. And the importance of story and narrative. But, mostly, the underlying theme of all I write is how taking a moment to stop and digest some longform text — instead of scrolling, instead of watching a video, instead of multitasking — can be one of the most grounding things we can do for ourselves. Here’s the one-stop online home for all this writing.
You can read more about me and my work by moseying over here. Want to peruse periodic “essay drops” — excerpts from my work-in-progress essay collection about Homesickness? Here ya go.
Pearl
I finished Siân Hughes’ Booker long-listed debut novel early this morning after getting about 3 hours of sleep (oy), and the slog sped up and her vision became clear.
Who’s a Critic?
Latest pet interest = criticism. As in literary criticism, not me rolling my eyes at that weird thing you said. (Am I projecting on myself??) It started with me re-discovering the work of Stanley Fish, whose book Is There a Text in this Class? helped provide the framework for my masters thesis so long ago. I then read Claire Dederer’s much-lauded Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma, an exploration of how to reconcile liking good art created by people who have done really not-good things (i.e. Woody Allen) that partly — and perceptively — shifts into how Dederer approaches her career as a critic. (In a nutshell, “…a never-ending flow of judgement, which nestles together with subjectivity.”)
A Ghost in the Throat
I am obsessed with this book.
O Caledonia
I read O Caledonia by Elspeth Barker, and, well I think the main thing I need to say about this is that teenage protagonist Janet is maybe, probably, definitely, for sure an Enneagram 4 (but notch it waaaay up to 11 — or more).
A Red Book Shed
“so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens”
— The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams
Salute
‘Salute’ by A.R. Ammons…
Remote Control
I’ve been thinking about “active” reading, not just a let-the-story-wash-over-me thing. It’s on my mind because, lucky me, I got some (v minor) insights into student life recently.
Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl
We’ve got another snowy day today, and I’ve been thinking about how snow is often romanticized. Don’t get me wrong: There is something so satisfying about “tucking in” and feeling unburdened by the rigmarole of daily life. Especially if it’s over a weekend; today is Saturday. Somehow Laura Ingalls Wilder even managed — in the rose-colored, made-for-publishing view of her childhood — to make The Long Winter seem dreamy.
The Marriage Portrait
I was an English major in college, but I have not read a text with the same intense scrutiny as I did then since…then. (That would be 1998 for purposes of tabulation and judgement.) Well, maybe I did back in 2019 when I (haphazardly?) decided to read one Shakespeare play per month. I mean, I do think I read carefully and with a critical eye and all that jazz, but it’s still different. Who has time to consider and then write 10-page papers about the meanings and various uses of “the”? (Just to exaggerate a tiny bit…)
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
The NYT’s “Overlooked” column, “a series of obituaries about remarkable people whose deaths, beginning in 1851, went unreported in The Times” — has got to be one of the most interesting recurring features in a daily newspaper. (Just my 2c.) I’ve posted about different ones before, including Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (author of Dictee). This one, about the 19th-century Black poet Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, was published toward the beginning of February, Black History Month.
Unaccompanied
Last month I was trying to read a memoir called Solito by Javier Zamora. It’s about the author’s solo journey as a child from El Salvador to the United States, where both of his parents were living.
At the Bottom of the River
I cannot stand winter in the Northeast US. I don’t mind the cold (rather like it, actually), don’t mind the snow (love, it actually), it’s not like I have seasonal affective disorder and need to move to Florida (no) or get a special lamp. Rather, I just really, really dislike the grey-ness and I really, really, really dislike the barren trees that all look dead. “Look at that marsh over there,” says Matt with an admiring tone on our drive. “You mean the one with what looks like toothpicks sticking out of it?” I think. Pass! Sorry to offend any diehard NE’ers here, but well...
