At any given time, I am a ball of anxieties. Like a tangle of yarn, I clump and loop, circling back to where I started and then knotting around again. I worry about the people I love, global warming, refugees in cages, if people like me, work, racism, cancer, the uncrossable gulfs between people, why … Continue reading Anxieties
We're a strange group of people—us readers, we bookish types. And writers know which side their bread is buttered on. Without readers, writers would have little reason to exist, which is why I've often felt that there's something a bit obvious or pander-y about books-about-books. Reading a book about the delights of reading, being a … Continue reading Do Books Matter?
Listening to: Tea shop radio. Drinking: Gingery chai latte. I cannot really remember a time before I couldn't read, although I do remember sounding out my first word—"l-u-n-c-h"—on the first day of first grade. And so for as long as I can remember, I have been in love with books, with stories, with learning about … Continue reading Why and Why Now?