Monday, June 30, 2008
I think ever since I finished up my degree last year, and no longer feel compelled to read poetry 24/7 (or at least can just read it for enjoyment rather than feeling like I have to “study” it somehow..) I’ve been trying to get back into reading fiction. I used to polish off two or three novels a week back in the day, devouring them rather voraciously on the train, on my lunch hour, in those little in-between times of the day. Granted since I take the bus pretty much exclusively anymore, and the scenery is much more interesting and the ride a bit bumpier and less reading friendly, I had all but given up my novel reading, and really only indulged myself when I had large expanses of free time (almost never) or when someone foisted a book upon me and I felt compelled to read it and return it promptly. Other novels I managed to pick up in the last three or four years still sit rather forlornly on my bookshelves waiting for me to get to them.
It’s funny how poetry, to me, always feels like I’m reading it for gain, to learn new tricks, to somehow apply it to my own work or see what other people are doing. Fiction, however is pure indulgence--akin to movie watching--—(we are talking about a girl who grew up devouring VC Andrews and trashy horror novels.). Years ago, I got hooked on books by Carol Goodman (who is also apparently a poet), and just recently got around to re-reading them, and since I have serious recall problems on just about everything I’ve read in the past ten years, it was almost like reading something new. Lo and behold, I checked the online catalog, and she has apparently written three more of them in the intervening years, so I swiftly ILLed those babies and should be able to settle into some serious summer reading in July. To boot, she has another due out in August. This makes me very happy..