{blogtober day 7} on the bookshelf :: September

Sometimes, when I look at my reading habits for my monthly reviews, I start castigating myself for my self-identified laziness. “Only three books in a whole month,” I say to myself, “what kind of lack of effort is that?”

Three books in a month. In bookstagram world that would have me pilloried, but in the real world, that’s actually a solid effort, and likely well above what the average person read in September. The ridiculousness of my self applied label really comes into focus when I look at my year to date stats.

44 books since 1st January.

As I write this post, it is 7th October, which google tells me is 40 weeks into the year. 44 books in 40 weeks is a pretty solid effort, really. That’s more than one a week; when reading is just one of my many hobbies, and real life needs attention, I think we can call that a decent year to date rate.

The three books I read in September were:

Wearing Paper Dresses (Anne Brinsden) // I loved this one, a heartbreaking story of the city vs country divide, the inability to cross it, and the isolation of both rural life and dealing with mental health as an outsider in a tight knit community.

When We Were Friends (Jane Green) // I grabbed this as the bonus short story on First Reads last month, and it had me hooked from the start. Elle lobs into Lucy’s life just as Lucy is finding her feet after a divorce. From bathroom stranger to instant bestie, Elle becomes Lucy’s favourite person, but the vibe is weird and it was fun reading along waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A Life Worth Living (Louise Guy) // it’s kind of like The Parent Trap But Make It Grown Ups. For me the most interesting part was how the protagonist viewed her own life, and that of her sister, and the value she placed on each of them; compared with the reality of what she didn’t see going on behind closed doors.

And as for that “laziness” I was blaming? Yeah, I think it’s more just the ebbs and flows of life – I’ve already finished three books in October, with another two audiobooks hovering around the half way mark. Maybe reading is less like a fractal – where the smaller sections look identical to the whole – and more like an impressionist painting, where the whole image doesn’t come into clear focus until you view it at a distance.