Today the postal service brought a galley of Elizabeth Hand‘s Saffron and Brimstone: strange stories from M Press, which made me very, very, very happy. (This is an expansion of her award-winning collection from PS Publishing, Bibliomancy, which we were never quite able to get our hands on, so double yay.)
And we went to the bookstore, with me whining, but I don’t want any more books, I really feel ill about it, but I have too many great books sitting at home, I don’t even want to buy any more today. So, I picked up Rachel Cohn & David Levithan’s Nick & Nora’s Infinite Playlist the moment I saw it, bought it immediately, without thought, and started it right away. Oh, you know how most people write about music and it’s just cringe-inducing? It’s just dancing about architecture? This book just nails it; starts out with the titular Nick playing bass in a club and SELLS it. The antithesis of cringing. (And I’m now obessed with tracking down everything Levithan’s ever written — if someone sent me a copy of Wide Awake I would pledge undying devotion. Or something.)
(I also almost bought Annette Kurtis Clause’s Freaks: Alive on the Inside! (title – eh, but freaks! and Blood and Chocolate is fab). But we have an ER bill coming. So maybe next time.)
And I’ve been reading The King’s Last Song. So so so good. There are few writers whose work, no matter what it is, instantly makes me fall in love. Geoff Ryman’s one of them. (Karen Fowler and Kelly Link are two others. Christopher, of course. Eduardo Galeano. I should probably make a real list. But suffice to say there are a very few that don’t seem capable of disappointing me.)
ps Finished this entry after drinking wine and soaking in pollen outside. Important to note in case of incoherence. ‘Night.