I started tracking my reading in 2017, and I have read an average of 131 books per year since then. From 2020-24, with fewer yoga classes to teach and very little commuting to studios and to the gym, plus that whole Quarantine Thing, that number bumped up to 145. I used the library to borrow most of these books because a) I don’t want to be broke, and b) I don’t want to drown in a literal sea of books.

But I still have a lot of books; some authors are automatic buys for me, and if a friend or an independent podcaster I admire writes a book, I want to support them. Sometimes I will read a book at the library and know that I want it for myself, to read anytime I want, and those books I will ask for as Christmas or birthday gifts. Almost all of the books on my shelves have been read twice, and most of them multiple times.

I have a very bad habit of becoming emotionally attached to my books, and I am extremely ungenerous and possessive with them. My dear friend Allison (HI ALLISON) lends books out freely, and told me that when she loans a book, she just assumes she will be rebuying it. Oh, how I wish I could be like that. How I wish I could be so easy-going and generous-spirited! Alas. I am not. I have exactly two friends, Sandi and Joy (HI SANDI HI JOY) to whom I feel good about loaning books, because I know that they are fast readers and the books will be back in my possession before I know it. It’s a big character flaw to be so attached to something that can, usually, be replaced easily.

But not all books can be replaced easily. There is no replacement for my copy of Diary of a Provincial Lady, which I purchased used in 1999 while my then-boyfriend and I were living in a downtown high rise apartment, and which I have read until it fell apart. There is no replacement for the copy of Little Women/ Good Wives/ Little Men that Grandma Fern had on her shelves when I was a child, and gave to me when I was an adult, because no one had read that book more than I.

There’s no replacement for the many books I received as gifts, that have the name of the giver written in the front, there’s no replacement for the old books that were Grandma B’s, there’s no replacement for the books I read to my children over and over again.

So you see how I can get so attached. Every book represents a part of my life, an era I lived through, and a deeply cherished memory.

How are we all organizing our bookshelves, friends? I have seen books arranged by colour and height, notably by my friend Elisabeth (HI ELISABETH). I have seen books arranged alphabetically by title or author, as per my friend Stephany (HI STEPHANY). One might not be surprised to know that I have a very strict organization method that only I am able to decipher. It would make sense to literally no one else, unless someone is actually living in my head, which…I hope is not a thing.

My favourite and most-loved books are all on shelves that are eye level, and then everything fans out from there.

The books on each shelf are either related thematically or correspond to a particular era in my life, although I must point out that the connections I see between books might not be visible to anyone else on earth.

Sedaris and the Norton Anthology of English Literature, together at last. How did Maya Angelou, the Berlin Stories, and the Kama Sutra end up on the same shelf? It makes sense to me, if to no one else.

Beloved books from my childhood and youth. The Murder of John Lennon, Go Ask Alice, and the memoir by Nancy Spungen’s mother are grouped with Sweet Valley High and the Bobbsey Twins, and that is NOT a mistake.

It’s an eclectic mix, to be sure. But it’s MY eclectic mix! I remember where I was and what I was doing in life when I acquired each book, and they are all a part of me.

Weekly Reading

Speaking of books, I had some real bangers this week.

The Safekeep. *this review contains a spoiler!* Something I never thought about before is what happened to all the real estate owned by Jewish people during the Holocaust. And what I found out – and what is the subject of this book – is that in the Netherlands, when Jewish people were taken by the Nazis to concentration camps, they (obviously) did not pay their mortgages, and so their homes and everything in them were repossessed and then sold to Dutch non-Jewish people. Imagine surviving the concentration camps and finally making your way home to discover you have no home, your home is now in someone else’s possession. I mentioned this in my writing date with Laura this week (HI LAURA), and she told me that not only did that exact thing happen during World War II with Japanese people in American internment camps, but it’s also happening NOW with people being deported. So. That’s depressing and horrific. I also discovered, reading this book, that Dutch people who hid and housed Jewish people (i.e., Anne Frank and family) were paid by the people that they were hiding. Which…okay. I can see that, there are risks and expenses. But it sure does change the narrative, doesn’t it? Anyway, this book is set in 1961, and involves an extremely unlikeable woman who is living in a house that we later find was indeed one of those houses, purchased for her and her siblings by an uncle. This is a beautifully written book, and the last third is particularly good. The subject matter is extremely upsetting and unsettling and makes me feel ill, honestly, particularly with the current wave of antisemitism that seems to be cresting. There is a romance component to this book that I thought was really strange, almost Stockholm Syndrome in nature, and that made the ending weird and dissonant for me. I guess it was symbolic – the book is rich with symbolism – but I really did not like it, I did not think the romance was realistic in any way. It detracted from the otherwise incredible story.

The Most. I really liked this book about a woman who, on an unseasonably warm November day, gets in the apartment complex pool and then doesn’t come out for the entire day. Her husband tries to no avail, and we learn about their marriage and the secrets that could destroy it. It’s a tight, moving book. Many thanks to Engie (HI ENGIE) who brought it to my attention and who agreed while it wasn’t a great read for her, it certainly would be for me. She was right!

Shark Heart. Several months ago when I first heard about this book, which involves a man who has a genetic mutation that causes him to turn into a great white shark, my immediate reaction was NO. Hard no. How stupid, I thought. But then my friend Swistle (HI SWISTLE) who knows my taste well said that I really should give it a try and it turns out that I was the stupid one for dismissing it so quickly. This is such a beautiful, compelling, interesting, and original book. It’s so creatively written and I feel it should be read with an eye to symbolism: how disenfranchised men can become incredibly dangerous, how lack of access and choice for women’s reproductive rights can be deadly, and how abuse and trauma are held in the body and transferred intergenerationally. But even without reading this symbolically, it is an absolutely captivating book. Two parts of note: Wren spent the day trapped in draining dialogues with chatty women, pretending to be interested in things like backsplashes and Bernedoodles. I feel attacked. The other piece that spoke to me, in a non-attacking way: I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we do get new performances of the same day, opportunities to be more accepting and loving. Maybe practice, rehearsal, is also the way to freedom. We can start over.

I will have a lot of time to read this week, for two reasons, both quite exciting. First, my upcoming novel, Inhale Exhale has been submitted to the publisher for FINAL EDITS!!! Much, much more info to come, but for now I have a little break from the manuscript, and I am going to use that break to read, and possibly to put twenty months’ worth of photos into albums. The former will happen for sure, but will the latter? Time will tell. The other reason that I will have extra time is that my husband and younger son left yesterday to hike the West Highland Way in Scotland. Some of you may remember that my husband and older son drove up the Dempster Highway to Tuktoyaktuk last summer, and this year it was my younger son’s turn to choose. He just finished his plumbing and pipefitting program last week, and was pretty excited for his first European adventure. The upshot of all of this is that it will be just me and Rex, although my older son told me he will be checking in frequently and coming by to mow the lawn and do other things that are not in my purview. I think he’s worried I will bring in all the gnomes for a dinner party, or that I’ll dress Rex up as a gnome. I CAN MAKE NO PROMISES. xo