Back-ish, by Popular Demand

I'm only working two jobs now; that's down by one from a few weeks ago.  Reading has kinda gone on hiatus in favor of sleep.  I haven't had the frame of mind or energy to sit down and read in a while.  Hopefully that will change, but I really don't see it happening until next year or so.  Whenever I do sit down to read I think I'll be looking at a lot of small or smallish books that go by at a quick pace to help me get a sense of completion.

It's not so much a reading funk and certainly not that I've run out of books of interest.  Hell, I've got a book by Nicole Krauss at home from the library that I haven't read, and she's my favorite writer ever, that I haven't found the strength to even start.

But in the realm of starting to read again, and short things that go by quickly, I do have a copy of Jennifer Brown's newest novel, Torn Away.  It's never taken me more than a few days to get through her books and they are consistently awesome (so I assume; there are two that I'm kinda staying away from...).  So I may find some time in the coming days to knock this out.  I also want to finish whatever the name of the book by Tad Williams that I was reading a month ago.  I got about half way through it and was actually enjoying it, but then fizzled out on reading energy.

Not to say 'I'm back' and reading like normal, but I haven't fallen off the planet either.          

Juggling the Hat Trick

I find myself in an odd circumstance: I'm reading three books at once.  Many people do this but not me.

Firebirds Rising is delivering a solid crash and burn.  It's not bad.  It's no where near as captivating as Firebirds, and Firebirds Soaring. (Perhaps it's that middle book syndrome; didn't know it applied to anthologies.)  I'm halfway through and while everything has been solid, nothing has been particularly special. 

I'm also at the halfway point in Guy Gavriel Kay's Sailing to Sarantium.  It's everything I've come to expect from Kay: vast, expansive, well executed and a gridlocked sense of control concerning pacing.  This isn't a bad thing either, but Sailing to Sarantium is a big book and as much as I'm enjoying it. it's hard to feel like I'm making progress. 

In a further effort to pick up something that takes off and doesn't stop the library notified me that my hold for Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare was ready.  A day later I'm a hundred pages in and if nothing else Clare has a serious choke hold on forward motion.  And that is a very good thing. 

I'd much rather find one book start, and finish it.  I don't like the juggling act, but I'm trying to make it work.  I look forward to finishing Kay.  It's odd considering how much I liked the first and third Firebird installments but Firebirds Rising has got me a bit anxious.   

The Right Book at the Right Time

So I'm reading Daniel Martin right now by John Fowles; who is a long standing favorite author of mine.  It's huge, the pacing is well controlled and like all other books by him I've read, it's a book you expect to spend some time with as opposed to blowing through in a weekend.  Fowles was English and not of my generation.  It has taken me a while to figure out why I think I have such stumbling blocks with him concerning his writing.

I have a handful of reading disabilities and Fowles syntax is not always 'American' (which is not a fault) added to which he is really good at structuring his words to evoke certain thoughts and feelings in his readers.  My biggest problem in reading anything is seeing what is actually written as opposed to what I want to be there: Fowles gives me fits.  (You should hear me read aloud sometimes: it funny to hear someone else go back and read what was actually written instead of what I read.)  That said, I think he needs about a tenth of the book's overall length before he hits his stride and things start to flow, or perhaps that's just me.

I've spoken before about reading a great book at a time when your mind isn't in it.  Daniel Martin is exactly what I need to be reading right now.  I've been in a rut and this book has made me fall back in love with the use of words and language to achieve a response from a reader.  It's not the greatest thing ever committed to paper; it's merely the right book that I need to be reading right now.

Oh, and while not the greatest thing ever it does happen to be really good.

Funk-be-Gone!

Been in a funk lately, and not merely a I-haven't-been-bloggin-funk.  No better way to kick the itis than to go shopping.  I bought seven books today; all but one of them are huge, which seems to be a trend of my reading at the moment.

The Blind Assassin and Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood; Possession by A.S.Byatt; The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley (900 pages?!?); The City and The City by China Miéville all came from a used book store up the road.  Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang and Annabel by Kathleen Winter were two that I--for some reason--bought new at a Borders that sold them for %50 off.  A lot of women in that bunch.

Speaking of women, I'm reading Blue and Gold by K.J. Parker whom I will identify as a woman until I'm proven wrong; it is a short novel that is certainly helping kick the funk.

I think I have spring fever.  I'm having a hard time doing much anything but staring out the window and saying, "Sure looks nice outside today."  It's a feeling that isn't really conducive to anything but going out side and doing nothing.

New Year's Reading Rut

I don't feel pressured to read.  I do it because I enjoy reading.  But for the past week or so it's been a chore.  I completely blame Charlotte Brontë.  Jane Eyre almost killed me.  I told myself I'd finish it before 2011 got here... that didn't happen.  I've completed five other books in the time it took me to knock this 19th century British behemoth out.  It's over and done; I've turn the last page.  The final word was, "Amen" and in response all I could say was, "Hallelujah!"


I liked it better than Wuthering Heights but thats not say much.  I'm glad I read the book.  If nothing else, it proved that 19th century British lit ain't for me.  Dickens, Eliot, pick a Brontë, I'll throw Conrad into the pot, and damn near anyone else other than Jane Austen you can think of I'll pass and say their work is not for me.  I can admit that there is quality there, I'd just rather contemplate the sharp end of a Bowie knife on a tender spot on my body than seek said quality out.  


It's odd as I love Russian 19th century writers so much: Turgenev, Tolstoy, Checkov, Dostoevsky, Lermontov, and probably a host of others I don't know and can't pronounce.  German writers from the same time, Goethe, Schiller, Heine also make me very happy.  I've even come across some French writing for the time that I've thoroughly enjoyed though I'm not well versed enough to even drop names.  I'm sure some bright, literature person could tell me what that means about me and my reading preferences but I don't know such people...    


So Jane Eyre is over and done with, problem solved right?  All-kinds-of-wrong.  I'm reading Middlesex, which is possibly the most compelling thing I've ever come across--and it just won't end.  It never ends... and I've no clue where it's going.  It's long to def: i.e. really long.  I like it better--much better--than The Virgin Suicides, but at least that one was terminal.  Middlesex feels indefinite.  (Commentary forthcoming)  Jeffery Eugenides is quickly joining the ranks of the previously mentioned British authors from yesteryear.      


I'm also reading The Mammoth Book of Merlin figuring super awesome short stories will help pick up my reading pace.  Normally this is true, but this collection has very few redeeming qualities to speak of so far; I've about a hundred pages to go.  It's not bad; all the writing is very competent.  It is however, the most uninteresting compilation I've ever come across.  Considering the subject matter I'm amazed at the blandness of the stories included.  It makes me believe in the power of some of those 'name brand' editors I see on regular fiction anthologies and collections.  I'm not even sure that Michael Swanwick, with the last story in the book can save this mammoth book of trite banalities.   


I want to read something fabulous at this very moment and at the same time, my disenfranchisement with reading makes me not want to open a different book, but rather turn to the unthinkable: renew my World of Warcraft account after four long years of dormancy.  


My favorite hobby somehow got tedious. 


Help.