They say that you are what you eat but that kinda depends on how you define ‘you’. I don’t feel like I’m a body. Which is not to say that I feel like a nobody. That’s a whole other post. No, what I mean is that I’m more than just a collection of digested vegan cheese, an assortment of vegetables and (obviously) chocolate.

I think it’s truer to say that you are what you read. But that’s only because I read a lot. For other people … ah, forget that. I’m not other people. They can write their own blog posts.

So anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of Margaret Atwood at the moment. Or, to be more exact, I’m reading a lot of Margaret Atwood’s novels.

Actually, when I think about it, the former is probably just as true as the latter. Margaret Atwood and her novels seem to be synonymous with each other. She writes much like (I imagine) she is. In other words, I can’t imagine her being able to make all the stuff in her novels up.

So, yeah, what I’m doing write now is drinking the essence of Margaret Atwood. I’m mainlining her. I’m downloading her consciousness into mine. I fear I am becoming her. And I don’t like how it feels.

You see, she doesn’t write happy novels.

To be honest, I think that’s about all I want to say on the subject for now.

Toodle-pip.