Hello St Marks

I've just fallen a little bit in love with myself, aged 38. I started this blog in October 2008 and I've just rediscovered both the blog and a side of myself I'd almost entirely forgotten. Not the reader, that's remained a constant in the 11 years since I gave up on the blog, but the writer. And I was quite funny back then; who knew? I started 'readingwithdrawal' to record a month without reading. I'd decided I was reading instead of living, and with two little boys that was unconscionable, so I stopped. From the first post: "I read a lot. The usual ways: in bed, over breakfast, on the sofa in front of the TV, Saturday mornings with a cup of tea. The unusual ways: in traffic, brushing my teeth, while cooking, a book propped up on the sill as I do the dishes. On the toilet, of course. And the rest, which I'm not proud of: while driving, while ignoring my kids." So I gave up reading for a month. "Of course, following Barbara's* le...

It may die in the ass, but I'm engaged with the idea of noting down everything I read this year. I restarted reading on 1 Nov, not a moment later, and began immediately with shiny Sunday supplements and nasty junk reading, of course. I have no restraint at all. It took weeks to catch up on all the glossies which had been waiting for me in their bags. It was delicious, and overwhelming. My first post-denial book-reading was Nick Harkaway's 'Gone Away World'. It was a brilliant premise, wildly imaginative. The first half was amazing, delicious, then it fell apart for about a third, then came together again to finish. I may not have done it justice, though; reading it when I was starving, I gulped it up and had no patience. I'll read his next book, when it comes. Nick is John le Carre's son, so it was a literary sensation, much-anticipated, etc, and worth the hoo haa. I finished Barabara Kingsolver next. She's great. She'll stay with me. Oddly, one of the m...

30 minutes on public transport without a book is cruel and unusual punishment. I read the ads. I almost read Rebus over a shoulder. Eventually I chewed over my current preoccupation: brain food. Reading is a brain food delivery system. If junk food tastes good but has no enduring value, so too a narrow diet of fantasy fiction (or romance, or crime, or whatever your junk preference). Choose from the healthy options menu and you'll grow up big and strong. I need to balance my diet of Barbara Kingsolver (more please) and Robin Hobb (only for treats). This metaphor could go far. So if you don't read, are you starving your intellect? I'm stretching a metaphor but there may be a chicken nugget of truth in it.

I read a lot. The usual ways: in bed, over breakfast, on the sofa in front of the TV, Saturday mornings with a cup of tea. The unusual ways: in traffic, brushing my teeth, while cooking, a book propped up on the sil as I do the dishes. On the toilet, of course. And the rest, which I'm not proud of: while driving, while ignoring my kids. I've found taking holidays usually sprouts one or two bold ideas, and this past holiday - with the kids to New Zealand - was as usual. I was reading - of course I was reading - Barbara Kingsolver's 'Animal, Vegetable, Miracle', about her family's year of seasonal eating. Clever concept, topical, passionately expressed. The notion of denial was immediately appealing. I've been feeling bloated with Western excess, full up and sick with it. And I was reading Barbara as the kids played Lego or fell about each other in a sequence of family motels; reading Barbara rather than romping with my boys in New Zealand. Reading has a mor...