I slow down on reading when I’m teaching a novel-writing class, naturally–having ten to fifteen student novels on the go takes up a certain amount of fiction-reading head space. It’s a regrettable side effect of an otherwise terrific process. So, as Novel Writing III wraps up, I’m crawling my way through Bill Bryson’s At Home: A Short History of Private Life
–which is written in a loveable, chatty style that makes one feel as though a good friend is telling you cool stuff just to please you–and the occasional chapter of Broken Harbor, by Tana French.
I’ve also read a number of Camille Alexa stories and poems this week, stuff from Push of the Sky. I’m getting to know CA better in real life; this is part of the process. But that too is something I’m taking slowly, mostly because the emotional intensity of some of the stories is cranked high enough to have made me cry on the bus, twice. I love intense, but sometimes you just can’t arrive at your destination an emotional wreck.