Hope for Shut-Ins

Hope for Shut-Ins

The first Costa Book Award (the Whitbread Book Award on caffeine) was awarded to agoraphobic UK author, Stef Penney, for her book The Tenderness of Wolves, a chilly 19th-century epic set in northern Canada.

Penney, the winner of over $57,000, has never been to Canada and found all she needed to know about our fair country at the British Library, proving once and for all that going outside is highly over-rated and that fiction, at its best, is a pack of lies.

It's Not Me, It's You

It's Not Me, It's You

Aha! I'm not the only one experiencing a dramatic loss of reading mojo. And it's all fiction's fault.

Thanks to my Auntie for the tip!

A Lot More Teacher's Dirty Looks?

A Lot More Teacher's Dirty Looks?

In possibly the most bizarre literary career move ever, Martin Amis has accepted a post as professor of creative writing at Manchester University. Was it the dental plan that won him over? Will it be Mr. Enfant Terrible or just Marty?

Slump Part Deux

Slump Part Deux

Thanks to all who posted comments and suggestions on getting over/through a troubling loss of reading mojo. I didn’t have any Stephen King lying around, but I did manage to pick up Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, which I’ve read before, and I think, qualifies as bon-bon fiction—the Purdy’s kind, not the 7-Eleven kind.

Laisha’s suggestion of a small island somewhere reminded me of the India trip and how John and I devoured 3 books that didn't necessarily stand out as life-time favourites while we were reading them. In no particular order, Ford Maddox Ford’s The Good Soldier, Bernard Malamud’s The Natural and Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

I’ve been wondering if my bookshelves are to blame for my reading malaise. As some of you know, I separate my books into “read” and “unread.” The read section houses only books that I have enjoyed enough or learned enough from to think I might read again. The unread section is self-explanatory. Yet, nothing, and I mean nothing, in the unread section appeals. Have I loaded myself down with too much literary dead weight? Is it time for a brutal culling, a serious, “Who are you kidding, when are you EVER going to read that?”

Do John and I really need two copies of The Tale of Genji?

What I’m trying to say is: could it be time for a trip to Henderson’s?

Where Has My Attention Span Gone?

Where Has My Attention Span Gone?

So, I've been abandoning a lot of books lately.

It's not that I don't have my reasons (The Rotter's Club by Jonathan Coe: overly tedious social satire; Gain by Richard Powers: fantastic set-up in the first 100 pages, but then no cause and effect, no escalation in tension; Perfume by Patrick Suskind: some bad, bad writing, and seriously, way too much narrative time alone in a cave) but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm losing touch as a reader.

Can a person lose their reading mojo? And if so, can they get it back? Can certain books, by virtue of their brilliance and impact, ruin you for anything else?

In an unprecedented move, I am ENABLING COMMENTS on my blog, so that YOU can share your thoughts on reading mojo.