Field Notes, vol 12
I write this looking at the early morning sun, at least what has filtered through the clouds, and it is magnificent. The morning holds such a strange combination of calm and hope for me: the day stretches out, full of hours not yet spent. The blueish light makes everything feel not quite real, a bit bewitched. Anything can happen.
My illnesses are easing back towards their everyday existence, leaving behind the heightened drama of a flare up, and I will celebrate with my delayed new year cleaning. This involves not only tidying, but also sorting and rearranging and clearing out my various possessions. They somehow multiply, no matter how close an eye I think I’ve kept on them, and systems that a year ago made tidying easy now need rethinking. I love it because it combines physical work with philosophical reflections, aesthetic decisions, and logical solutions. My entire being is engaged, and at the end I will once again have a cosy, working little place.
This week, spent mostly with various heating pads on various pieces of furniture, allowed seemingly endless time for reading. Lots of reading. Last Sunday, I’d completed three books in the year. This Sunday, I’ve completed thirteen. In fact, midweek I started deliberately spending time on other things, because I was afraid of my back list piling up at even more rapid pace. Which is something I’ll return to later.
Meanwhile, I found several nonfiction treasures amongst my reading. Naming Nature by Mary Blocksma (already posted about) was everything I could ask for in a natural history book. I found myself moved to tears and laughter and much inward reflection by Still Life with Oysters and Lemon by Mark Doty: the ideas in this book are far heavier than its seventy page slimness would suggest. If you have any interest in the intersection between life and art and physical objects, do look for a copy. Of course, The Inconvenient Indian, the latest book by Thomas King, one of my favourite authors, was incredible: a mix of history and storytelling that takes no prisoners in its account of how both the US and Canada have treated native populations, particularly in the more recent decades. That he managed to do all this without leaving me depressed or guilty or hopeless is a testament to his power as a storyteller. I’m now craving more books by Native American authors; luckily I have Crow Lake out from the library right now and Marilyn just listed several intriguing sounding ones.
I also read two books by authors with very different viewpoints than my own; while I can’t say I wholeheartedly loved either, I did encounter interesting or valuable ideas in both Hunger of Memory by Richard Rodriguez and The Plain Reader ed. by Scott Savage. Reading books by authors who hold very different philosophies of my own sometimes feels like berry picking: lots of thorny branches to be cautious of, but if I can make it past them, there’s a reward waiting.
In contrast, my fiction reading was less than stellar. I only loved one without reservation: Water Like a Stone by Deborah Crombie. Crombie, and her Duncan/Kincaid mystery series, is one of my favourite discoveries of 2013, which should be obvious when I tell you this was the eleventh in the series! That means I read ten of her books last year, and I didn’t discover her until July. Three of the other novels I read were by authors I already like, and while they were all page turning, ultimately I ended up feeling a bit dissatisfied upon completing each of them, although for different reasons. A Spider on the Stairs by Cassandra Chan is the latest in her mystery series, and while the others have been very traditional and puzzle-like, thus qualifying as comfort reads, this one included a serial killer subplot that I found unnecessary and disturbing. Bellman & Black, Diana Setterfield’s latest, started out strong, but couldn’t sustain its magic and rather than following through on the promise in the beginning seemed instead to weaken. Not a terrible book by any means, but not a fabulous one either (of course, I was never quite as in love with The Thirteenth Tale as many others).
Raj by Gita Mehta also began strong, only to lose itself towards the end, although its cultural richness, sociopolitical commentary, and cleverness made me forgive it. It was published in 1989, which makes me think about how few books I read that were written from, say, the 50s to the 80s. They seem in a kind of in-between land: too young to be classics but too old to receive much attention. Unless I’m reading a favourite author’s back list, I tend not to come across them. I’d like to seek more out! And then of course there was Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker, which I expected to love like all of the other bloggers I’ve seen talk about it. That didn’t happen, to put it mildly, as I detailed on Thursday. Oh and I began a new audiobook, Ayana Mathis’ The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, but I’m not far enough in yet to guess how I’m going to feel about it.
I’m currently in the middle of Love in a Headscarf, a fabulous memoir that includes a lot of religious and cultural musings on love, marriage, and a woman’s place. This is personal feminist writing at its best, despite the impression the title and cover might give you. And once I finished this post, I plan to begin Pathologies, an essay collection by Canadian Susan Olding. I have had very good luck with essay collections by women older than me, so I’m looking forward to it.
I accomplished a lot in blogging this week too: I posted almost every day, which considering my 2013 track record is almost a miracle in and of itself. I also did lists for four reading challenges (and added a few more besides) if you’re curious. And yet, having read ten books in one week, I’m now faced with an unavoidable fact: I read books more quickly than I post about them. Even if I did write a post as soon as I finished every book, when would I publish it? In general, I only post ‘reviews’ three times a week, as I like to discuss other bookish things as well. If I adhere faithfully to that schedule, I could write about at most 156 books in a year. I tend to read twice that amount. What should I do? Publish more than once a day? Accept that not all books will get their own individual attention and go back to group posts so at least I talk about it a little bit? Ration my reading (just kidding)? I don’t know yet. I do know that it’s easy to feel crushed by a review backlog and end up not blogging at all; I don’t want that to happen this year.
Of course, I don’t always read this much: during a flare up, it becomes almost impossible to pursue my other interests, so reading and perhaps a bit of knitting are all that happen. As much as I love reading, when my health permits I want to expand the time I devote to making this year, so perhaps this will end up being less of an issue. I’m not sure.
I’m off to do a bit of reading and knitting, the latter of which will provide plenty of space to contemplate possible blogging approaches. Do share your own approaches or any solutions that come to you for my dilemma.