I’m afraid I’m going to fail to fulfill a promise I made a few years ago. When my second son was born, one day the cat came to me and said (I’m paraphrasing), “Why do you keep bringing these men into the house? When will we ever have the chance to be alone together in the sunshine with all these boys around, and their hammering, running, zooming, and eating?” I told her, “Elly, one day you and I will have a girl room, with a chintz-covered chaise longue, late-afternoon sunshine, a mohair-y throw blanket, a pot of tea, and a stack of great books. We’ll spend weekends in there, dozing and reading. I promise.”
Well, the Girl Room hasn’t materialized yet, and unless they’re planning a big Christmas surprise for me, it probably won’t happen. But I can still lie around with a stack of books like it’s my job, and for this Cinderelly is truly grateful.
What I’m having trouble with is: what should I read? When I hit the bookstore, I look for interesting covers or for books I’ve heard mentioned by other people. Sometimes I hit; sometimes I miss. Whenever I go to the library, I wander around aimlessly, looking at covers and pulling out books I haven’t read by authors I already know. But I’m sure there are people (other than librarians and critics) who know exactly what is good, or a classic must-read, or not-just-chick-lit-but-good-chick-lit. Are they you?
If you had a year and wanted to make sure you read all the important stuff, including classics and contemporary literature (although maybe not so much poetry; sorry, Amy), what would you read? Tell me, tell me — there’s still time to put together an Amazon list…