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In the three months since my last post I think it’s been pretty well established that I somewhat lack the necessary skills to conjure regular content. The problem is that waiting for WordPress worthy events to happen is an often dull and at times lengthy activity. Months can pass without so much as a blip of excitement. Then suddenly the world turns itself inside out, changes its orbit, is sucked into a black hole and spat out at the other end of a worm hole in a parallel universe where life will never be quite the same again. It’s terribly exciting, and definitely WordPress worthy, but who has time to write a clearheaded summary of events when the universe is literally rearranging itself? However, by the time everything’s settled down and I’ve acclimatised to life in a new dimension, it doesn’t seem that thrilling after all, certainly nothing I can be bothered broadcasting across the interwebs.

That’s my problem. Life is inconstant. Solution? Imposed deadlines. One thing I am always doing, to some degree or another, is reading. I also tend to associate memories with whatever I was reading at the time. When I started school I was listening to C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia on audio tape. When I had the idea for my first book I was sitting outside a lecture theatre overlooking the lake at Flinders and reading Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. When I graduated from Honours I spent a lazy afternoon in a zombified state by the pool with Bret Easton Ellis’s Less than Zero, and when I met Alex I was alternating between Lacan (for uni, not pleasure) and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated. 

So my plan is to post every time I finish a book. I’ll include a mini review about the text, why reading it seemed like a good idea at the time (there have been some rather odd choices in the past) and anything of note that happened while I was reading.

A word of warning: these posts may not be frequent. In the glory days before I decided in a moment of clear delusion that having a full-time job, PhD thesis-in-progress, boyfriend, some semblance of a social life and a veggie garden was totally doable, I used to spend entire Saturdays sprawled on my parents’ couch nursing a hangover and whittling away the daylight hours with a book until it was respectably dark enough to hit the nightclubs again. Now I’m lucky if I can stay awake long enough to read a few pages before bed, or the weather’s bad enough to give me a legitimate excuse to read on the tram rather than ride my bike to work.

That said, I am halfway through Book Number One: Bill Bryson’s Made in America, picked up as a holiday read in a second hand book shop in Port Eliot, South Australia, while visiting family for Christmas. I have a soft spot for Bryson, and this being a book about both America and language, specifically how American English evolved, pretty much makes it a triple threat. Watch this space.