I’m ashamed to admit it, but it took me seven months to finish Eowyn Ivey’s The Snow Child. This is no reflection on the book’s quality or read-ability; this season of life has just been a ridiculously busy one.
Given the length of time over which my read of The Snow Child was stretched, I would’ve expected the book’s impact to be somewhat lessened. After all, how emotionally engaged can one be, reading a book one 5-minute fragment at a time?
Note to you, dear reader: Step 1 in creating a perfect “reading kit” is to get yourself an excellent book. But Step 2 is to grab yourself something comfy for your feet. Some recommend fuzzy socks; flip flops are a classic choice if you’re heading to the beach. For me, it’s armadillo slippers or nothing. Just seems right for this Texas gal.
Anybody who’s ever lived far from home knows that receiving mail takes on a new–and rather enormous–significance. This was true when I left my beloved Texas for my mid-west college. And it’s even truer now that I live overseas. I’m not the only one to feel this way, either: If ever you want to see a group of adults in suits sprint, just holler “mail call” in an Embassy. Then get out of the way. Otherwise, a herd of diplomats will run you down.
Ready to raise the giddiness level even higher? Well, just let this gal rip open a mystery envelope to find a book containing this: Continue reading “Mail Call!”→
You know how your want-to-read eyes are always bigger than your time-to-read stomach? And how this phenomenon leads to you have a waist-high stack of books you know you’ll get to “someday”? (From talking to other bibliophiles, I know I’m not alone in this affliction.)
For many years, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude occupied a spot on my wishful-reading list. Based on my work on his Love in the Time of Cholera (which features in my chapter in the The Body), I knew a García Márquez novel was not to be tackled lightly. I wanted to wait until I had the time and focus to truly do it justice… which I never seemed to have at hand.
Having had my Texas Christmas early while visiting with my family, I’ve already scored some pretty awesome gifts this holiday season. But I’m excited to add one more treat to the pile… another book with my name tucked inside as an author.
A November publication, S/He: Sex & Gender in Hispanic Studies rolled off the printer in time for the holidays. So if you’re looking for a Christmas gift for the lit nerd in your life–or if you’re a celebrator of the Icelandic book-giving holiday–Jolabokaflod (A.K.A, the “Christmas Book Flood”)–you can score a copy at your nearest Amazon site!
And if feminine heroes are the recipient’s cup o’ tea, feel free to nudge them to read my installment in the anthology first: Chapter 9: “Golden Age S/heroes: Steel-Plated Petticoats: Women and Heroism in Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quijote.”
Happy Reading/Giving! Please take a moment to share in the comment section what books you’re giving or hoping to get this season! I’ve already grabbed Emma Newman’s Between Two Thorns and Rene Gutteridge’s Ghost Writer. What’s on your list?
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It’s standard wisdom: Never judge a book by its cover.
Yet it’s hard not to when a book’s cover–and title–are so fantastic. Beautiful, atmospheric, and a bit eerie, these appealed to the fairy tale/folklore lover in me. Between these exterior flourishes and the novel’s story–main character Vasilisa dares condemnation as she uses her supernatural communion with creatures of Russian folklore and an alliance with winter demon Frost to safeguard her people from a nebulous dark–I knew Katherine Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale was a book I had to have.
I’m happy to say the cimmerian ambiance promised by the cover carried into the novel. The aesthetics throughout–whether descriptions of the rusalka (a water sprite), or the harsh beauty of a wintery Russian forest–were striking and resonant. Even now, months after finishing the novel, I can summon to mind a multitude of scenes, lovely and ominous alike. Continue reading “Bite-Sized Book Reviews: “The Bear and the Nightingale””→
No doubt about it: I have Book Lust Syndrome. I already have far too many books on my “to-read” list. But that doesn’t keep me from adding new ones to my shelf when something catches my eye, or a trusted friend makes a reading recommendation (talking about you, Courtney!) In short, I’m a textbook (pun intended) victim of this adage:
But as giddy as I get over cracking a new book’s spine and exploring the possibility contained within, there are times when a familiar read offers much-needed comfort. These comfort books aren’t always the most refined or revolutionary. But there’s something in their familiarity, in their resonance of a simpler time, that is soothing.
Life at this moment is definitely making me want to hide in some well-worn pages. The deadline for my massive, months-long work project is approaching with terrifying rapidity. I’m still juggling my writing and my full-time “real” job at the Embassy, along with all my other responsibilities, my relationships. It’s all I can do to get in my lap-swimming sessions. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in months and that makes me sad.