It’s January, and it’s been really cold, although not “bomb cyclone” cold. Just super-duper, the-car-doesn’t-even-warm-up-enough-for-heat-until-you-get-to-work cold.
And I never seem to sleep well in January, which could be for all kinds of reasons this year—politics, teenagers, old friends and illness, memories creeping out. You might think this would make me want to read things uplifting and positive and joyful, but really, I find myself heading straight for murder mysteries and teen novels on most days. I find Flavia de Luce, a connoisseur of poisons, especially relaxing.
But then books pop up on my desk, and I have to read them. Someone Like Me is full of light and fond memories and drawings that are beautiful but a bit hazy. There is not an ounce of snark or dark humor. It’s exactly what should annoy me right now, but I found myself reading it twice. Why? It’s not really a story. It’s more a description of how you might become a writer, by listening and imagining and reading. It is sweet, but it’s wonderful, too, for this brief moment.
Someone Like Me by Patricia MacLachlan and Chris Sheban