I ought to write about Siri Hustvedt’ essay collection, but I’m currently in one of those writing and reading air pockets, a kind of stupor, or literary SAD, also linked to my current work overload.
I feel like writing but as soon as I face a keyboard or a notebook, no word comes out of my brain. And I don’t feel particularly excited about any book I pick up. As far as I see in the small lit blog world of my blogroll, I’m not the only one, so I guess it will pass (when in an airplane I just close my eyes and wait until the turbulence is over, I unfortunately can’t do the same in real life)… especially as I’ll be in holidays in 2 ½ weeks’ time (insert here a little happy dance).
For the writing crisis, I keep my little daily gratitude list (especially as the list grows, it feels good to reread previous entries). As for the reading blah, I took drastic measures: I left all wishy-washy and started A Fatal Inversion by Barbara Vine, which everybody (including Danielle and Mr. Smithereens) agreed to say it’s just great. I need greatness.