reading

I'm the kind of reader who after The Chosen by Chaim Potok eats matzo and hard-boiled eggs for a week. Overactive imagination, profoundly affected reader.

That said, I'm disappointed with Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott. I'm not thinking of things in a new way or having my world shaken in any way. I look forward just to finishing it and passing it on - doesn't deserve a permanent space on any of my shelves. I'm frustrated I spent money on it.

It is, however, disturbing. When she writes about loss, it hits me too close. Sometimes I think I might be consumed by grief and guilt. I'm miserable about ending with Dayton. It doesn't make it at all better that I'm the one who broke it off.

So, from now on, only nonfiction about snow and birds and Pancho Villa and ecosystems.

I'm not trying to hide from the grief - I know I have to work it through. But I don't want to dwell on it. It's hurting me more than I expected.