Friday, November 23, 2012


I'm not sure it's a turkey-induced coma or the ceaseless rain, but I'm experiening a bit of writing lethargy today.  All I want to do is curl up and READ a good book. I feel some guilt over not adding pages to my current w-i-p. On the other hand it is nice to remember that I AM A WRITER BECAUSE I AM A READER. I learned to write by devouring books like chocolate chip cookies. And I worry that sometimes the pressure to produce words prohbits writer-me from taking the time to marinate ideas, to let things simmer, to enjoy a cozy, book-by-the-fire afternoon, to just be.

So, on this day-after Thanksgiving, I'm going to forgive myself, offer belated thanks to the many authors who have and continued to delight and inspire me--old friends like Noel Streatfield, Agatha Christie, W. Somerset Maugham, and Laura Ingalls Wilder; and newer delights like Lauren Oliver, Francesca Lia Block, James Howe, Sharon Creech, Holly Black, Gordon Korman, Judy Blundell, Karen Hesse, Louis Sachar, Laurie Halse Anderson--and to give myself over to reading.

I'm in the mood for something with a detective--not necessarily a classic Sherlock Holmesian style but something with some mystery in the air. Also, I like characters with red hair.  And some well-written kissing scenes, of course. Judging from the 59 titles on my Goodreads TBR list, I should find something to fit the bill.

Where has the tryptophan or tofurkey-tophan (?!) led you this lazy Friday?

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