Reading

My joke du jour is that pretty soon I will no longer know how to read. I have made books part of my everyday, but I enjoy them in audio form.

Books were absent from my life for many years. While Burt was well, we were busy together and I couldn’t immerse myself in a book. When he got sick, I couldn’t find the concentration.

Since Burt passed, I have raced through a small library of books. I enjoy them in clumps: a bunch of Sue Grafton’s [re-reads]; some Ronald H. Balsan novels; several Fiona Davis stories; a burgeoning collection of Lisa Jewell works; a smattering of Frieda McFadden’s grim p.o.v.; all lightened by Janet Evanovich. There are other titles I have devoured, like Yellowface, James, or The Street; I read a few Isabel Allende works, as well as Like Mother, Like Mother; the intriguing The Lady in Gold; I finished The Four Winds and Educated; I recommend the odd Elinor Olliphant is Fine and American Dirt, too.

In fact, I recommend the whole enterprise that involves hearing a lovely voice read Jane Austen, or Taylor Jenkins Reid, or Mark Twain aloud to you. It gives to the activity of reading an entirely new dimension. I find it very pleasant, this story hour in which I indulge.