Do you find that some years, you just keep reading the same sorts of books?
In 2008, for instance, it was fantasy. I didn’t plan for it, and I didn’t follow a particular author: people just kept suggesting books, and I found them on the back of my bed, waiting. Books are sneaky like that. You’ll pile up a few to start the queue, and one of them will manage to stealth to the top just at the moment you’re groping for your glasses. No one can convince me it was an accident. They were words about wizards, after all.
Last year it was religious philosophy. I admit I sought most of them out, being tiffed at the lackluster offerings at local churches. Still, how did two books on Buddhism end up in my bags when I went to the hospital? I had been reading them, sure, but philosophy? While gargantuan with child? I should have chosen something less gravid–or perhaps that was the point. I ended up playing Civilization IV rather than reading. But my point is this: books of a type tend to pile up on me.
This year, I’m reading memoirs, and it’s making me feel quite contrary. Normally, I prefer history of a scholarly vein–the ones you find in the basement of some university library, their pages still uncut, no dates on the covers. Never underestimate what a few gift cards, a nook, and clever advertising can do to one’s convictions! I’m now up to twelve memoirs. Some have been delicious, I admit, but I will not let 2013 be the year of memoirs–especially not when my science-fiction count is precisely zero.
Tempt me! What sci-fi should I read next? I’ll duct-tape it to the top of my book stack.