Early in January (while I was still on vacation, to be specific), I reported that I had dispatched my first two books of the year rather quickly, the final Maisie Dobbs mystery, Among the Mad, and The Art of Racing in the Rain.
While lying on the beach, I also read The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, a lovely book which is a combination memoir and history of bookstores. You would not think that bookstores had a fascinating history. But they do. I also read The Florist's Daughter, by Patricia Hampl. Ms. Hampl is a rather famous (locally) memoirist; this is I think, her best. It is framed by her mother's death, and deals in what is means to be the child of her particular two parents, her Irish mother and her debonair Czech father. This book made me really think about what it would be like to write a memoir of my own. (The TV Repairman's Daughter?)
Then I had a colossal failure: I did not finish reading our January book club book, The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova. I still feel bad about that. It was slow in places, but after our discussion, I think I will try finishing it, someday. (It's a literate Dracula novel.)
Then I treated myself to the latest Spencer Quinn mystery, Thereby Hangs a Tail.
Finally, I re-read the book we'll be following during Lent: the Centered Life, by Jack Fortin.
I'm working on Nineteen Minutes, by Jodi Picoult, right now.
so. 6 1/2 is my official count, so far.