Here we are again, another year starting, and I’m taking time to reconsider, restructure, rethink, recommit. No resolutions, just lots of wondering. For most of last year, I didn’t think about this newsletter. I withdrew. I played solitaire on my laptop and listened to audiobooks, some new but mostly mysteries I’ve read before, books that didn’t contain anything that would emotionally ambush me. I can only take so much, and 2025 was a year full of slings and arrows.

I think I’ve avoided writing posts here because I’m afraid of what will come out, and if you are a writer—of any kind—you know that all kinds of things can emerge that can reveal something you might not want to think about because if you think about it, you might have to go back to bed and pull the covers over your head—speaking only for myself, of course. My friends take to the streets—literally—with signs. I told my friend in Oakland that I’d love to take part in a No Kings protest, but then I’d have to pee and would I be able find a place to do that without wetting my pants? (If you’re new to this newsletter, I’m 80, and I’m not joking).

We know that reading books expands our ability to think critically, to learn, to ask questions, knowing there may not be an answer but also knowing that the questions can lead to some darned good conversation. Yes, I’ve been reading for comfort and for entertainment, especially now when I feel beaten down by the horror of world events and what is happening here in the U.S., and I avoid those books that fill my already scared brain with more reasons to despair. But I don’t want to give up good discussion. I want to know what drives us, individually and collectively. I want to have an open mind when I disagree with something I read or something I heard. I want to manage my own overwhelming anger that is really a cover for overwhelming fear. I want to run for cover and I want to fight back and I do not want to be part of an us/them construction that can only lead to more dysfunction. And I know I am a work in progress and will get it wrong—again.

For the record, I am one of the “Liberal Extremists” that the MAGA Republicans fear. And here’s what it means to me to be a liberal extremist: I believe in our constitution and the rights of all people, regardless of their color, their religion (or lack of), their economic status, their country of origin, or whom they love. I believe in a woman’s right to choose what she does with her body, and I believe in a woman’s right to vote her own conscience and not her husband’s demands. (Yes, I am “woke.” The opposite of woke is asleep.)

That’s pretty much it. Liberal extremism? I call it love and compassion and respect for all human beings, even (maybe especially) those with opinions different from mine. I just thought you should know, because I want to continue posting here, and I have no idea what might come out and I don’t want to censor myself. If you are uncomfortable with my rambling and this kind of personal honesty, please unsubscribe. If you stay, I ask for your support in whatever way you can offer it—to me and to all of us who are afraid but not willing to give up.

And finally, I want to share this thought as we enter a new year that is bound to be full of challenges: I want to hang on to my ability to love, to not give in to hatred or my own despair, to not believe lies—no matter how they are dressed up, no matter how many other people accept them as truth. Let’s start the year with respect for each other and especially for integrity and personal courage. And good books, of course.

My warmest regards to all of you.

I was talking to a friend recently about how quickly things can change, and how old age always has a surprise up its sleeve. One day I noticed that my eyelashes are turning white. A couple of weeks ago after washing my hair, I saw that it was curly—but only on one side. Seriously?! My hair has always been straight—with a very slight wave—but never curly. Well, it is now—unless that changes, which it could.

Now? I have shingles. Not the ones on the roof. I have the ones that are a nasty burning rash on the body that make it painful to sit or lie down or stand or move. I’m exaggerating a bit, but you get the idea. I kept putting off getting the vaccine, and now here I am: stuck in the house until it’s comfortable to wear anything but a nightgown.

And I’m bored.

I’d like to say I’m reading more, since I’m stuck at home, and that is my plan, but first—to distract myself from the discomfort/pain—I had to binge-watch some TV shows, and by binge-watching, I got to see some patterns that might not have been as obvious if I had been watching one a day. Here’s what I noticed on “FBI”: When they’re searching for the perp and they see him coming around the corner of a New York street, they don’t hide and jump out at him as he passes and wrestle him to the ground; no, they yell “Stop, FBI!” giving him plenty of time to run, knock over pedestrians, dash into the street and over cars, race down an alley, and climb a chainlink fence to freedom. The other show I binged was “Sky Med,” about a team of medics and pilots in a remote area of Manitoba who rescue people who are sick or wounded and can’t get to a hospital any other way. I was interested in the whole rescue operation part, and I like the characters and got to know who they were and why they were doing their jobs out in nowhere, but here’s what happens when about 10 people are living in a lodge together: they kiss, they have sex (often literally jumping on each other), they argue, break up, hold grudges, get over it, get back together, and then—more kissing. When I could see what was coming, I’d yell at the TV: “No more kissing!” Then I’d fast-forward to the interesting parts: fly to a remote landing strip, bump along a stony path through the woods in an ATV, pry people from under fallen trees or out of crashed ski-mobiles, escape bears and bad guys, shuttle the fallen, crushed, slashed, broken patients back to the plane, take off, and more drama ensues in the plane: poisonous snake, bomb, fever-crazed patient trying to get out the door of the plane—you know, just another day on the job.

Between naps today, I returned to reading. (No kissing. No sex. No stupid FBI agents.) So far my symptoms are mild, and I try not to freak myself out by reading about possible maybe probably probably-not side effects of shingles. ACK!!

I’m almost finished reading Elfie—hey! There’s a map inside!

Next I’ll move on to Silas Marner, which I downloaded onto my Kindle. What are you reading? How are you?

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When I put my nose in the pages of the book I’m reading right now, I smell a room that has just been painted. I imagine yellow-gold walls, a room waiting to be lived in. The book is new, just came out: Elphie by Gregory Maguire. The words on the pages have no smell of paint, but my imagination picks up the swamp, mud, reeds, and—from my childhood roaming in places I was told not to go—polliwogs. The words in this book show me homes with dirt floors and no walls. I see the young Elphaba from Maguire’s Wicked, and the armless sister, Nessarose. Elphie drags Nessa behind her in a wheeled cart that bumps over rough terrain and, like me in my childhood, they are going places they were told not to go. Elphie may be green—literally—but she is also every kid who has ever been warned: Don’t! In her teens, she is every mother’s nightmare, or would be if her mother were still alive. She is willful and reckless and thinks she knows more than she could possibly understand at 13 years old. And so the story is an adventure.

I’m reading again after a long dry spell. Since I last wrote, I’ve dropped down into many Golden Age mysteries—like popcorn, one after another, no nutrients. Then after January 20, when the world tilted again, I re-discovered Middlemarch (George Eliot), and every day I lost myself in a land as imaginary as Oz, a town colored in muted tones and peopled by colorful characters. I was so happy to be reading a book that runs about 800 pages and in no way reminded me of current events—which seems to be the base of my reading requirements since Jeeg died.

You probably know that feeling we readers get when we come to the end of a really good book, and even before we close it for the last time: we’re already getting anxious about what to read next. For me it’s a panicky feeling: Oh no! NOW what am I going to read?! I felt that way after Middlemarch, so I tried Bleak House (Dickens). It was too bleak. I set it aside. I escaped into more mysteries until I couldn’t stand to read another one—bloated on who-done-its. A friend recommended Orbital (Samantha Harvey), and the only flaw I discovered in that book was that it’s short, so I was in and out of that dreamy world too soon.

My granddaughter is a big fan of the recent genre called “romantasy,” a blend of romance and fantasy. And she curates recommendations, knowing I don’t want to read romance novels and have no interest in the sexual escapades of he/she or even she/she. When she was 12, she told me I must read Twilight, and I did. It was a fun read, and I loved the setting—foggy, coastal, redwood forests—and since I have loved vampires since I was 12, I was willing to give it a go. The best thing I got out of Twilight? the start of talking about books with my granddaughter. So when she suggested I might like Fourth Wing (Rebecca Yarros), I demurred. Yes, there is romance in it, and he/she sex, but when I am reading a book, as opposed to listening, I can easily skip those pages—and I did. I read a sample first and was hooked in the first 10 pages, and there I was, dropping down into another big fat book with a compelling story. When I finished the book, I was in that book-fear state again, and in that state, I went to a bookstore with my granddaughter, which is a little like going grocery shopping when you’re hungry: not a good idea if you’re trying to stay on a budget. I don’t usually binge-spend on books, only because I try hard not to, but that day I left with four books: one was a dud, one is a writing exercise book (I’ll tell you about that one in another post), one is written from the points of view of three dead people (I’ll try it later), and one was Elphie. Bingo!

I read all of the Oz books when I was a kid, and more than once I’ve read Maguire’s reimagining of Oz in his four Oz books: Wicked, Son of Wicked, A Lion Among Men, and Out of Oz. I am an Oz fan and a big fan of Gregory Maguire, so how could I not buy Elphie? In hardback. Not cheap. It’s another short one at 275 pages, but it satisfies my need for escaping our political landscape into a well-written book that takes me into a land I know well with a complex character who makes me think.

I’m curious: What books are you drawn to these days? Would you say you’re reading for escape? Pleasure? Learning? Do you have an inner—let’s call it a list—of what you want in a book? Please share.

Here’s my latest list:

• Must be well-written and well-edited.

• Must not depict heavy panting lustful romance/sex. Well, ok, but I get to skip those parts.

• Must not make me think about what is going on in the world right now (it’s my list—I get to choose when and how to bury my head in the sand / a book / ice cream)

• Must have some characters I like / love / admire who are compassionate / kind / thoughtful.

• The bad guys get what’s coming to them.

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I’m still not reading very many books, but that hasn’t stopped me from reading about books. Below are some real quotes from brief blurbs in my daily BookBub E-book Deals newsletter. Just so you know, I don’t like being snarky.* I’d like to be kinder and more understanding. Some days I can manage that; other days I can’t, and on those other days, I really entertain myself. And besides, some of these were probably written by AI—we don’t know for sure, do we?

I have an idea for the new year: how about if we do away with book blurbs. Seriously. No quotes, real or otherwise, from Kirkus Reviews or any other reviews. No authors of other books telling us how wonderful this book is, how profound, how [fill in the blank]. What if we let the book stand on its own merits. Keep the synopsis on the inside flap. Those are helpful. But blurbs? Book Riot has an interesting and informative piece on the history of books blurbs. They’ve been around for more than 100 years. I’m with George Orwell on this subject:

George Orwell in his essay “In Defense of the Novel” described blurbs as “disgusting tripe” and that “novels are being shot at you at the rate of fifteen a day and every one of them an unforgettable masterpiece which you imperil your soul by missing.”

I don’t think I have ever bought or read a book based on what I read in a blurb. We all know they are gassy, so do we even read them? There are books—writing, creativity—and there is marketing—the reader as consumer. Period. Blurbs are marketing and don’t have anything to do with the quality of the book.

I like to read reviews from the New York Times or the Guardian. Some help me add books to my TBR list, but that doesn’t mean I will actually read the book. I notice that for the last few years, I don’t choose books from my TBR list. I listen to friends or the women who work at my local bookstore, Books Are Awesome. 

Finally, here are a few of my favorite Stupid Book Blurbs. If you have any, please share.

As opposed to fake terrific?

Well, first I want to know what was omitted between “page” and “is full.” I wonder if the Kirkus editor was tasked with saying something positive about the book, in which case they deleted “endlessly boring” and put in”interesting.” This is, I think, a case of being damned with faint praise.

Or . . . I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe . . . Give me a minute . . .

Did you know that the meaning of “incredible” is “unbelievable or not convincing”?  Why does it require rapt attention? Otherwise you’ll nod off?

Because that’s the reading experience you’re looking for: one that twists, tightens, and drains you completely. 

Yes, another reading experience we seek out. So many readers are introverts and have never been or would ever go to a strobe-light show.Would that improve Moby Dick? I doubt it.

This book is in my books database, so I know I read it, but I can’t remember one thing about it

Ummm . . . Certified by whom? How was that done? Is that anything like TV ads where a man (it’s always a man) in a white doctor jacket “certifies” that “two out of three [whoever] swear that these [whatever] will make you more [virile, sexy, smart, funny]?

On one of my snarky days, this one showed up in a newsfeed I get in my inbox every day, so I’m including it here because it’s a head-scratcher:

Predict forecasts? That’s what it says. Predict what a forecast will say about the weather. Does DeepMind have an in with the local weather station in order to predict the forecast? And are there “existing models” for predicting forecasts? Does this have anything to do with real weather? I think the editor called in sick that day.

Wishing you a year of good books and bad blurbs. We need all the laughs we can get.

* That’s not true. Some days I really enjoy being snarky, but I don’t usually share the snarks, so those don’t count. 

Big Fat books (those over 500 pages), especially books that are maybe hard to read or are required reading in a classroom, are often referred to as “door-stoppers.” Lately I’ve run into comments about other ways they can be useful, like what Richard Armitage said in The Guardian newsletter, “Bookmarks,” about the book that changed him as a teenager. “I read The Lord of the Rings when I was 13. I had a single edition of all three books which I used to stand on to reach the top shelf in my wardrobe.”

I read or heard somewhere once that the best thing about James Joyce’s Ulysses (1056 pages) is that you can carry it on a plane with a bookmark halfway through to make it look like you’re smart, although having “read”* Ulysses in college, I can tell you that reading Ulysses, really reading it, indicates persistence more than intelligence, at least in my experience. And I know that some people love stream-of-consciousness writing. I’m not one of them. It would be smarter to carry the less-hefty Dubliners (118 pages) and actually read it and enjoy it. I still carry images in my head from those stories.

Dickens wrote Big Fat books, and so did many of the Victorian novelists. I took a class in Victorian Lit in college (only because there were no other classes scheduled at a time when I could attend and it was my last semester and I needed the credits to graduate) and knew I was in trouble when I was 500 pages behind in my reading of Vanity Fair (720 pages). Here’s how Vic Lit has been valuable in my everyday life: working crossword puzzles. Also as weights when I’ve made a paper collage and want to encourage it to dry flat.

I almost read Anna Karenina (848 pages) once. I started to read it, and because I was prone to reading more than one book at a time, I guess I just lost track and didn’t think about it again until I was moving into a different house. The movers lifted the bed, and there was Anna Karenina, face down and spread wide at about halfway through. “Hmm,” I thought. “So that’s where I left it.” I must have enjoyed it enough to read to that point but not enough to continue. I love Dostoevsky, especially Crime and Punishment (720 pages), and I’m sure that’s what led me to try Anna Karenina, broaden my reading of the Russians. [Just now as I was looking up the page count, I saw this blurb from a young author of popular fiction: “I finally finished Anna Karenina recently . . . I think I can say without controversy that it’s a great book.” My Snark Persona was so relieved to hear that she had put her stamp of approval on this classic.]

When I am in my usual love-to-read state, I get excited about a Big Fat Book. I love dropping into a different world and hanging out there for awhile. And when I’m done, I can use that book as a bookend, especially good when I stack it on top of another two or three Big Fat Books. The best book-end-door-stopper in one volume: Shakespeare’s collected plays and poetry:

Do you read Big Fat Books? Which ones have you loved or hated? 

Do you have other ways of using books besides reading them? 

*The truth is that I “read at” Ulysses, skimming most of it so that I wouldn’t be totally lost in class discussions. My attempt at reading it led to long stretches of thinking about things like what to cook for dinner that night while my eyes kept moving left to right, left to right.