Finding the right book at the right time is one of those rare gifts from the universe, much like finding forgotten chocolate in my desk drawer, or seeing a rainbow on an especially desultory day. Starting 2018 with Gail Honeyman’s Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine was one of those rare gifts, even doubly so in setting the tone for what I hope to be a year of plentiful literary wanderings...
It should have been so easy to be happy. I have a book hangover. I loved Liane Moriarty’s What Alice Forgot. I mean, I really loved it, and I feel sort of cheated that I didn’t get to say goodbye to its cast of characters and wish them all well before having to return this book to the library. I didn’t anticipate that I would like this book so much, and I almost didn’t...
Historically, I have had a tendency to be a serial reader. I’ll read something long and hard, then find myself uninspired to pick up anything else. Similarly, I’ll blow through a series of something (a particular author, a general theme that sends me down a self-defined rabbit hole) only to find myself crashing into a wall. I don’t know if this is good or bad. Perhaps it’s...
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