This is going to be a brief post today, just as it was a brief week of blogging. Offline it was a long week, but I'm still happy to be here on the blog as much as possible. In my bookish life, I had a really great week. I attended Alwyn's book launch on Monday with our book club friends. It was a packed event, filled with people excited about Rebel of the Sands. Most of the time I only get to experience the community of book-lovers online, but it was wonderful to see a part of it in real life.
Now, I'm putting in one last push of productivity before clocking off for Valentine's Day weekend. I know a lot of people do not enjoy this holiday, and I know it is a bit pointless and overblown, but I'm looking forward to a romantic evening with my boyfriend. It's my tradition to make macarons for the occasion, something special and indulgent to enjoy with a bottle of champagne. We'll also be going out for a nice dinner, which is always something I look forward to, but mostly I just appreciate Valentine's Day for reminding me to tell people that I love them. I'm such a sap.
Anyway, here's an abbreviated update on what I've been enjoying this week.
Check out my review of Rebel of the Sands - my favourite book of 2016 so far! I'm still listening to Order of the Phoenix on audiobook. Books 5-7 are so long, but it's nice to draw out the experience of listening to the story so I don't mind. And after setting Passenger (Goodreads) aside last week, I've returned to it now and am fully enthralled. I have an unpleasant thing that must get done this afternoon, directly after I finish this post actually, and so I'm using Passenger as a bribe - do the unpleasant thing and then I can read all afternoon.
Poem of the Week
by Stuart Dybeck
They were nearing the end of their story.
The fire was dying, like the fire in the story.
Each page turned was torn and fed
to flames, until word by word the book
burned down to an unmade bed of ash.
Wet kindling from an orchard of wooden spoons,
snow stewing, same old wind on the Gramophone,
same old wounds. Turn up the blue dial
under the kettle until darkness boils
with fables, and mirrors defrost to the quick
before fogging with steam, and dreams
rattle their armor of stovepipes and ladles.
Boots in the corner kick in their sleep.
A jacket hangs from a question mark.