On books and things

A quick note before bedtime. I finished Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones in record time (after I read in the back pages of Lauren Beukes’s The Shining Girls that it had served as inspiration for her novel) and then passed it on to my boyfriend’s grandmother, who’s ploughing through it even faster (but then, she is a veteran).

I’m always struck by the reckless abandon with which I read books. Perhaps I’m foolish, perhaps ignorant, but books are the one thing I’ve never been scared of, unlike the long drive to Randburg.

Speaking of books, I’ve started a section in the magazine I work for called “The Book Nook” in which my colleague and I will write reviews on financial books that Penguin sends to us each month. It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever done, save perhaps for sleeping in a floating raft house in a Thai forest.

Where was I? Oh yes, books. Terry Pratchett has single handedly cured any feelings of depression that arise, especially on Sundays. Reading TP and walking the dogs are my two fail safe remedies for the “what am I doing with my life?” blues.

Then I went to Pretoria today, and even though I’ve only been on a few quick trips there for work, I felt a sense of familiarity, the kind that holds promise, the newness of the forgotten known, and it made me itch to write again. Something creative. Something poignant. A Lovely Bones that chills and lingers and never gathers dust on a shelf for too long.

Bedtime now.


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