My year in books: 2016

This was an interesting exercise last year, so I thought I’d do it again.  Obviously, 2016 is widely considered to have been a pretty terrible year for the world, and it was also a challenging year for me, personally, and for many people I know and love.  There will no doubt be a lot of thinkpieces in the next few weeks about what’s happened, and what we’ve all learned (or not learned), especially because some of what happened isn’t going to end in 2017, and we’ll all have to deal with the long-term consequences of things like Trump and Brexit. I look forward to anxiety-reading all about this in the next three weeks. (I enjoyed this piece from Slate, although it was published in July, back when Trump was just a nightmare and not a terrifying, Orwellian reality.)

2016 y u no end soon?

Is it over yet? Source.

All this preamble is to say that I was curious about whether my reading patterns would somehow reflect the crap year we all just lived through. I know that there was one major change, which I didn’t track through Goodreads: I read many more escapist romance novels this year than I ever have before. I don’t tend to count those toward my book total for the year because they are a) embarrassing to list in a public forum (sorry, I’m still kind of a snob), and b) I breeze through them so quickly that sometimes it’s like does this even count as reading. But in my own personal Terrible Months of July, August, September, and October, that was really all that I was reading, in between a lot of crying and anxiety-ranting at friends and family. (Anxiety-verbing is mostly what I spend my time doing, to be honest. Thanks, friends and family, for putting up with me.)

So anyway, my official number for this year as of December 8, 2016 is 80 books read, but it’s a bit higher than that, unofficially speaking. There’s more of a numbers breakdown below. Aside from reading more escapist fare this year (in addition to the uncounted romance novels, there was a lot of Georgette Heyer and YA fantasy), I don’t see very many patterns in my reading. As befits a year where a lot of things fell apart, most of the books I read seem to have been grabbed at random.

First, some superlatives (categories vary slightly from last year)…

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Best book I read: I absolutely loved The Inconvenient Indian by Thomas King. Funny, sharp, insightful, and never dull, written with an appealing blend of anger and dry humour. The Canadian government is doing a #GiftingReconciliation book list this holiday season, and so far they’ve made some great choices, including King’s book. It should be required reading for everyone in North America. My two runners-up are The Break by Katherena Vermette (a book I’d love to see on the #GiftingReconciliation list) and My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante (more below).

Worst book I read: Unlike last year, I didn’t have an immediate winner here. I very much did not care for The Friday Night Knitting Club by Kate Jacobs, but it wasn’t pretending to be anything other than what it was—a somewhat fluffy escapist read.

Most fun reading experience: This is a three-way tie between two really fun books, Live Alone and Like It by Marjorie Hillis and The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery, and one pretty ridiculous book that I loved despite myself (The Hating Game by Sally Thorne, but fair warning, it is ridiculous). The Blue Castle is a true delight. Let the back-cover copy convince you:

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original-imageMost disappointing reading experience: 
I read Bill Bryson’s newest book The Road to Little Dribbling when I was on vacation in the U.K., thinking that a book in which he wanders around the U.K. would be a perfect
thematic match for my trip. I love Bill Bryson so much that I read the book he wrote about the summer of 1927 in America even though I don’t especially care about 1927, aviation, U.S. presidents, or old-timey baseball players, and I loved it—I trust him to take any boring old subject and write about it well and with great humour. So I was very disappointed when I finished The Road to Little Dribbling, which has all the heart and gentle wit of a diary kept by a cranky octogenarian muttering about “kids these days,” which is to say, hardly any.

Best endings: Unquestionably Elena Ferrante. I’ve only read two of the Neapolitan novels so far—My Brilliant Friend and The Story of a New Name—and I have to admit I got a bit bogged down during the middle of the second one, but Ferrante knows how to build up steam before plunging her reader right into a devastating, dark, and perfectly unexpected ending. Those endings are seriously just killer. They’re not really cliffhangers, but both of the ones I’ve read (no spoilers, don’t worry) bring back a character, object, and/or motif that was important earlier in the book in such a surprising and perfect way that you think, “I can’t wait to read what happens next.”

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Best new-to-me author: I read Kurt Vonnegut for the first time this year (Slaughterhouse-Five) and was appropriately blown away, but my pick in this category is his polar opposite. My friend Jill (hi, Jill!) recommended Georgette Heyer to me ages ago, and this year I finally dove in. If you like Jane Austen, Heyer is the closest you can come to recreating that magic, and unlike Austen she was very prolific, so you’ll be occupied for a while. Her plots are formulaic, not as rich or surprising as Austen’s (but whose could be), and the characters are often quite silly—let’s say “lightly drawn”—but her books are thoroughly entertaining if you like the Regency period.

Best sequel: A Court of Mist and Fury, Sarah J. Maas’s follow-up to A Court of Thorns and Roses, veered sharply away from the track she laid during the first book, to great effect. Many long YA series can be frustrating because new situations and characters are thrown in only to create obstacles between the main character and the “real” love interest or to unnecessarily prolong the series. Maas herself is guilty of this in her Throne of Glass books, but in A Court of Mist and Fury, she reworks a lot of what was presented as unquestionably good in book one, and not in a way that just feels like she’s treading water waiting to get back to the original plot or love interest.

Best title: The title of Anne Tyler’s retelling of  27070127
Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew is great: Vinegar Girl. The book itself, less so. I wanted Tyler to dig a lot more
meat out of Shakespeare’s story, which she places in modern-ish Baltimore and retells with a light, mostly too light, touch.

Best revisionist history: My Lady Jane, co-written by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows, is an absurd but fun retelling of the story of Lady Jane Grey, who was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary I, aka the two weaker prequels to Elizabeth I. In this version of Tudor England, the Protestant Reformation becomes a conflict between people who can turn into animals at will (Protestants like Edward VI) and those who can’t (Catholics like Mary I). I said it was absurd!

The Thomas Hardy Award for the book that took so long to read I forgot most of the plot: Moby-Dick. Obviously. I haven’t finished it yet, so I assume this award will have the same recipient in 2017, and possibly 2018… But my coworker gave me an adorable pop-up version of the book, so if I read that, it basically counts, right?

rush-ohBook I read because it seemed enough like Moby-Dick to count as working on reading Moby-DickShirley Barrett’s Rush Oh! is a charming coming-of-age story set in a small whaling town in New Zealand around the turn of the 20th century. Teenager Mary Davidson has to care for her many younger brothers and sisters while supporting her father and his whaling crew after her mother’s death. It’s a much funnier, gentler story than that summary suggests, and it reminded me very much of my beloved I Capture the Castle, which brings me to my next category…

Book I read because it seemed like a straight rip-off of I Capture the Castle and I am
here for that: 
This is a very specific-to-me category, but I’ll read any book set in a dusty old English castle that is about a girl who needs to marry rich. Thankfully for me, Patrice Kindl delivered with Keeping the Castle. It isn’t really a straight rip-off of ICtC, as it wasn’t written in the 1940s and therefore has a more tongue-in-cheek modern attitude about all the ridiculousness of decaying English aristocrats and life in a castle. It’s also set in the Regency period and its protagonist is much less dreamy and romantic than our 31122beloved Cassandra, but Keeping the Castle definitely scratches that “castle” itch. Keep the escapist castle books coming 13249217in 2017, world—we’re going to need them. Also, this seems like a good place to note that I wrote about ICtC for The Billfold this month, thus fulfilling my desire to proselytize about that novel to the world (or the portion of the world that reads The Billfold).

Best literary experience: Okay, so 2016 wasn’t all bad for me, because I took an amazing trip to the U.K. (pre-Brexit) and *drumroll* saw a BBC drama about the Brontës being filmed in their hometown of Haworth, West Yorkshire. Which, by the way, is both the most picturesque place I think I’ve ever been and where I had the most delicious afternoon tea. I also saw the couch Emily died on and Charlotte’s appallingly tiny “mourning shoes,” which she decorated with the hair of her dead siblings. The Brontës were far more metal than you or I will ever be.

Bonnets!

Bonnets!

It was a pretty literary trip, in fact: we saw a Shakespeare play at the Globe Theatre; I went to the British Library not once but twice to look at two different exhibits; I also wandered through Lambeth carrying Somerset Maugham’s Liza of Lambeth with me (doing a bit of research for some freelance work, more on that in 2017); I visited the Charles Dickens Museum and was extremely excited to learn that I have the same butter churn as ol’ Chuck; then, the Brontë pilgrimage; and finally, we popped in to the Writers’ Museum in Edinburgh to say hi to Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Robbie Burns. Definitely the highlight of the year.

I was very excited.

I was very excited. Also, The Black Bull was where Branwell went to get drunk. History! It’s everywhere, even in pubs.

And now, some numbers. In 2016, I read:

  • 80 books (as of December 8, with several more that I didn’t add to the official total—a complete list minus those extras can be found here);
  • 65 books by women and 15 books by men (crush the patriarchy etc.)*;
  • 66 novels, 11 nonfiction books, two mysteries, and one book of short stories;
  • 24 books I’d classify as young adult (though the lines between young adult, “new adult,” and regular old adult fiction are becoming ever more blurred);
  • six books inspired by Jane Austen in some way (four by Georgette Heyer, who was absolutely a Jane Austen fangirl, in addition to Dear Emma by Katie Heaney and the diary Emma Thompson kept while she was filming Sense and Sensibility);
  • five books by one author, Sarah J. Maas (the most books by any single author that I read this year);
  • four books about dating and/or being single, including Live Alone and Like It, about which I’ve gone on at length, but also All the Single Ladies by Rebecca Traister, Labour of Love by Moira Weigel, and Date-onomics by Jon Birger;
  • two books about food in some way (Consider the Fork by Bee Wilson and Kitchens of the Great Midwest by J. Ryan Stradal);
  • only one book set during WWII, Slaughterhouse-Five (this feels like it can’t possibly be right since all books eventually get back to WWII somehow…);
  • and once again, nothing by Jonathan Franzen! Good riddance, 2016!
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My cat’s favourite read this year was Commonwealth by Ann Patchett.

*A note: This includes one book co-written by three women. In last year’s post I included only the author’s sex (which is just a best guess based on a quick Google search or prior knowledge; obviously we can’t always know an author’s true gender identity preference). It’s important to me to read diverse books (after this year more than ever), and I still do a pretty terrible job of it, so I need to make more of an effort. But giving a breakdown here of “white writers” vs. “writers of colour” also doesn’t feel like a great solution for a whole host of reasons—sometimes you know a writer’s background or race and sometimes you don’t, and I don’t want to assume anything about anyone or lump all writers of colour into one category. I do know that I need to get better at this, though, so I might start noting this more in 2017. 

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In which I enthusiastically recommend an advice book from the 1930s

In troubled times, sometimes the best thing you can do is open a book and pretend you live somewhere else. In these particular troubled times, I have a feeling almost anywhere else would do—even Mordor. Now feels like a really good time to climb into a long fantasy series and never climb out.

livealoneBut for my own escapist reading last weekend, I chose Marjorie Hillis’s 1936 advice book Live Alone and Like It, pitched as “the classic guide for the single woman” and complete with charming illustrations (peppered throughout this blog post). You’re probably wondering why anyone needs a guide to living alone, let alone liking it, especially if you’ve ever had roommates. It’s true that living alone is a pretty simple matter of paying rent and, you know, living there, but Hillis is here to tell you that living alone can also be a Great Adventure, or at the very least a moderately stylish and entertaining good time.

img_20161123_213941I’ve lived on my own for just over three years, and the pleasure of having everything exactly where I want it and as I like it has yet to diminish. Recently, I bought a new cover for my couch. Who did I have to fight with over the colour or convince that it was a worthwhile purchase? Absolutely no one. (Regrettably, I did have to pay for it all myself.)

Hillis is fully in favour of making one’s living-by-oneself existence as comfortable and cozy as possible. A writer for Vogue, she was naturally concerned with fashion, style, and parties, but she also, smartly, realized that as more and more women were moving into cities to take jobs and delaying marriage to work and date first, some of them might end up living on their own, and those women would also want to be fashionable, stylish, and throw parties. Live Alone and Like It is aimed at women who hope to eventually not live alone—e.g., women who hope to marry. It was such a bestseller that women who lived alone briefly became known as “liver-alones,” and Hillis went on to write another advice book, Orchids on Your Budget.

img_20161123_230559But even if one is just waiting to get married, says Hillis (remember, in this book it’s 1936), living alone doesn’t have to be a sad routine of eating sardines from the tin or wearing shabby housecoats. Absolutely not! In Hillis’s world, living alone is a glorious affair featuring lively cocktail parties, well-ordered weekends of reading, dinner dates, and breakfasts in bed, and quilted bed-jackets to wear when entertaining from one’s bed. (There’s a whole chapter devoted to beds called “The Pleasures of a Single Bed.”)

img_20161123_214018Written in crisp, wry, matter-of-fact prose, Live Alone and Like It offers practical advice about how to manage meals for one, entertain in a small space, keep oneself stylish on a budget, and find an appropriate hobby. For example, did you know that all you need to have people over for cocktails is seven bottles? (Sherry, gin, Scotch, rye, French and Italian vermouth, bitters.)

Hillis also ends each chapter with adorable, possibly completely fictional “case studies”
about real women who do or do not follow her advice. Consider “Miss N., a pink and plump lady” who scares off men because she has “the gleam of the huntress” in her eyes, versus Mrs. de W, a widow who learns that breakfast in bed is the cure after a lifetime of working hard. Let’s all put on our favourite bed-jackets, let in some morning sun, and eat some toast in bed while we read a novel.

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This book is really quite delightful, and it doesn’t even feel that dated. There is an arch comment about Calvin Coolidge, which isn’t exactly topical, but it’s a sick burn, so that’s a wash. In the past few years, there have been a whole host of books about women living alone and spinsterhood and people delaying marriage (I’ve even written about some of them), and Live Alone and Like It fits right in, especially with its focus on what to buy to achieve the perfect single life. Consumerism and spinsterhood seem to go hand in hand, but that’s an essay for another blog post.

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Allow me to quote from the book now to convince you that it’s a singularly pleasurable reading experience. And with chapter titles like “Solitary Refinement” and “A Lady and Her Liquor,” how could it not be?

On the reasons why people find themselves living alone: “… the chances are that some time in your life, possibly only now and then between husbands, you will find yourself settling down to a solitary existence.”

On a proper bedroom wardrobe: “This is no place to be grim and practical. […] don’t think that four bed-jackets are too many.”

On breakfast in bed (her favourite topic): “Of course, the civilized place for any woman to have breakfast is in bed.”

On having a second savings account, separate from your emergency fund: “It may seem superfluous to you, occasionally it may even be superfluous, but, in that case, you can always blow it in on an evening coat or a trip to Bermuda.”

On hobbies: “The hobbies your friends will appreciate most are astrology, numerology, palmistry, reading hand-writing, and fortune telling by cards (or anything else).” It’s the parenthetical “anything else” that I love there. Even fortune telling by reading animal entrails?!img_20161123_214045

I’ve been thinking a lot about the why of living alone lately. My landlords sold the house I live in, and for a while I thought I should move out and find roommates so I could pay less rent. But I keep coming back to the same thought, that living alone is truly worth it. There’s a special kind of magic in being able to sit on my (newly covered!)* couch on a Saturday morning, reading or waiting for banana bread to bake or checking the morning headlines, and looking up to see my card catalogue and my old butter churn and all my art and books and unnecessary throw blankets, and knowing that absolutely no one is going to bother me or tell me I have too many blankets, because I live alone and like it. As Hillis writes, “The trick is to arrange your life so that you really do like it.” Helpful advice for all of us, liver-alone or not.

* this is a lie because I haven’t actually put on the new cover yet

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo

Hi, my name is Kathleen, and I like stuff.

life-changing-magic-of-tidying-upNot all stuff, admittedly—my problem areas are clothing (specifically dresses) and books. I mean, that’s the reason I started this blog: my overwhelming piles of unread books. I’m happy to say that since I read Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, those piles have gotten a little smaller. My closet is more organized, and my drawers have room in them.

Kondo is an organizing guru and this book is ostensibly about how to be tidy, but it’s really about how to approach the concept of possessions in a way that doesn’t leave you with piles of useless crap. The book is a manifesto in favour of minimalism and joy. Kondo’s point is that our possessions should bring us joy, from our socks to our hats to the oven mitts we use. Working through a typical home in categories, from clothing to books to papers to mementos and so on, Kondo urges us to ask ourselves, “Does this spark joy?” of everything we own. It’s a simple question, but it felt revolutionary when I applied it to my own belongings. No, in fact, that book I bought in 2004 and am clearly never going to read does not spark joy. It makes me feel guilty. And so out it went. (That book was Vanity Fair, by the way. I can’t believe I’ve carted that thing around to three different cities and five different apartments.)

“Does this spark joy?” is in fact a surprisingly easy question to answer. It turns out that joy is pretty easy to identify (as anyone who saw Inside Out knows). If you’re holding a shirt and you answer this question with, “Well, I paid a lot of money for this,” or “My mom gave it to me,” Kondo would say to get rid of the shirt. You should be able to say, “Yes!” to the question without qualifiers.

Kondo’s methods can seem kind of bizarre—for example, she advocates holding each item of clothing and thanking it for its service to you before discarding it—but she writes about them in such a matter-of-fact and encouraging tone that before long I was completely hooked. I’ve applied her method to my clothes, books, and papers so far. This is how it works: you take everything in your house that belongs to that category, let’s say clothing, and lay it out on the floor. This way you can confront it all at once. Spread out like that and it just looks like so much unnecessary stuff.  Why do I have so much?

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A before shot of my dress pile. I really love dresses. About one third of them did not spark joy and were donated.

As I dutifully picked up each item and considered it, the benefits of Kondo’s method became apparent. When everything you own is on your floor, you’re forced to think about whether each item should get to go back into the closet. I found myself holding dresses I haven’t worn in years, remembering who I was with when I bought it or the friend’s wedding I wore it to. Somehow, remembering these things made it easier to part with items that didn’t spark joy. I spent the longest amount of time holding a plain t-shirt—ratty, old, and cheap—because it reminded me of a very particular memory. It was hard to get rid of it, but I had to face the fact that it didn’t spark joy (in fact, it made me kind of sad). Also, the memory exists in my head, not in the t-shirt.

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The bottom drawer in this picture used to be packed, and now there is empty space.

Kondo also has a special method of folding clothes, and it is genius. There is about fifty times more space in each of my dresser drawers now from a combination of discarding and refolding.

Books were much harder than clothes. You see, Kondo is firm about unread books. She writes that if you haven’t read it soon after buying it, you’ll never read it. I don’t totally agree (and in fact this inspired me to pick up Steven Johnson’s The Ghost Map, which I can’t even remember acquiring it was so long ago, just to prove her wrong), but there was certainly a reason that I didn’t get around to reading some of those books. And that reason was that I didn’t want to. So out they went.

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Half of my books, pre-KonMari. HALF.

I’ve made a deal with myself that the unread books I did keep have to be read within the next year. I’ve updated my list with those titles, so stay tuned.

Naturally, there has been a bit of backlash to Kondo’s method. A writer for the New York Times exhorted everyone to embrace clutter because to be human means to collect, to treasure. I agree, but do I really need to keep treasuring unopened mail from Scotiabank’s SCENE program? Probably not. Writing for the National Post, Emily M. Keeler expressed the same idea: “You are supposed to be burdened by your life, you are supposed to have stuff, to accumulate memories, experiences, and things in equal measure.” I agree with this, too, but as I’ve learned, memories and experiences are not tied to stuff, and not all stuff needs to stay tied to me, either. Believe me, I still have plenty of stuff (I probably wasn’t strict enough when I went KonMari on my clothes, to be honest). The thing is, when we get rid of what we don’t love, we can focus on all of the things we do love.

And why are we so beholden to our stuff, anyway? Our possessions aren’t supposed to possess us. It’s lovely to have dresses that we enjoy wearing and books to read and, I don’t know, a fancy cheese grater to grate fancy cheese or whatever else we like, but in the end, they are just objects. The meaning we give them comes from us. And we carry that meaning, invisible and weightless, with us.

My cat approved of the books I chose to keep.

My cat approved of the books I chose to keep.

Kondo has worked one-on-one with clients, and she writes that many of them have experienced big life changes after such sessions. We’re talking promotions, new jobs, new love interests, financial windfalls, etc. This is where her method gets a little bizarre again. I actually did get promoted recently, although obviously it wasn’t caused by my getting rid of a bunch of striped sweaters I don’t wear, but I think Kondo’s point is interesting. Clearing out items that don’t spark joy can make you feel more focused on the present and optimistic about what other things you want to focus on in your life. Changes can naturally follow.

I do know that since I’ve done this clear-out, I’ve been able to make some plans for my future. I feel a tiny bit less stuck than I did before. And all I had to do was get rid of an old t-shirt.

Twentysomething by Robin Marantz Henig and Samantha Henig

Atwentysomething_why_do_young_adults_seem_stuck_by_robin_marantz_henig_samantha_henig_1101600489 few months ago, I started to notice I had this strange feeling: like I was kind of stuck. After a few years of moving cities, getting and leaving jobs, and finishing degrees, I’ve now been in the same job and apartment for about two years. This is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere since I finished my BA, really since I became an adult, and it feels weird. Having settled into something of a career, or at least an industry I enjoy working in, I began to think about where I wanted to go. But I was having a hard time making decisions that I’d been mulling over for a long time (literal years, in some cases): Should I go back to school? Should I start a blog? (And later, why don’t I ever update my blog?) Do I need more hobbies? Why don’t I write more? Where do I want to live? What do I really want to do?

And because my general plan for most crises is to read my way out of them, I went on a hunt for books about “quarter-life crises.” Yup, I’m one of those. I listened to Meg Jay’s TED Talk on why 30 is not the new 20, and then I read her book The Defining Decade. It terrified me because it’s about the things you should be doing in your twenties—that is, if you want to reach a set of prescribed goals by the time you’re in your thirties (career, marriage, house, children). Not all of my goals align with what Jay tells us are the markers of a settled adult life, but nevertheless, I wished I had read the book five or six years before, when I was just finishing undergrad and had most of my twenties left ahead of me.

Twentysomething

And then I found a book called Twentysomething: Why Do Young Adults Seem Stuck? by the mother/daughter writing team of Robin Marantz Henig and Samantha Henig. Marantz Henig is the author of a New York Times article called “What Is It About 20-Somethings?“, which was about why this (my) generation seems to be taking so long to grow up. Samantha Henig is her twentysomething daughter. Twentysomething is exploratory rather than prescriptive; they give some advice, but the focus of the book is on how and why things have changed for young adults from Marantz Henig’s youth to her daughter’s. The book is divided into sections (school, work, dating/sex/marriage, friendship, etc.), and one of the authors writes the bulk of each section, with the other contributing comments here and there. At the end of each section, they both make a decision about whether this is something unique to this particular generation (Generation Y or Millennials), or whether young adulthood has always been tough and things are really just the same as ever.

This is an interesting structure for a book like this, and I especially appreciated reading Samantha Henig’s thoughts on her mother’s depiction of our generation. Their overall conclusion is the realization that life is kind of a mess when you’re in your twenties, because you’re figuring things out, and that hasn’t changed much despite all of the things today’s twentysomethings are now struggling with (for example, high student loans, recession, competitive job market, the rise of online dating and casual sex). I don’t know whether I agree, but they made a good case.

But the thing is, this book did not make me feel better or give me any direction for my life. A pat conclusion (“Things are hard! It’ll be okay!”) is not particularly what I was looking for. I think I could have learned more about choices, mistakes, and regret from one Alice Munro story. On some level, it’s helpful to know that other people struggle with the same issues that I do, but I want to know what I can do about them. Are we just supposed to wait out an entire decade of our lives until things become more clear? When I hit 30, am I suddenly going to be full of clarity and self-acceptance? This is what my friends in their thirties keep crowing about, but I am suspicious.

I’m tired, too, of reading books that suggest you need to hit certain markers of adulthood to be considered an adult. People who never get married or have children or own a home aren’t some other, lesser category of adult. So in an age where people are less likely to get married, have children, and own homes, what are the new markers of adulthood? Do we still care? That would have been an interesting book.

So, it seems that reading did not solve this particular life crisis. It’s been a few months since I read this book, and I’m still dealing with the same questions. (Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, I’ve at least ruled out going back to school for a PhD!) A more helpful plan might be to try new things and figure out what really makes me the most excited and enthused about life. And, of course, read more Alice Munro.

On the other hand, Twentysomething and The Defining Decade made me realize that I should spend more time on skills I want to develop (writing) and less time worrying that I will never develop them. Which means this blog is back in action—and while my goal is still to read through my unread books, I’m going to be blogging about the other books I read, too. And I got rid of a bunch of the unread ones, so a list update will be forthcoming.

I am now taking recommendations for novels about people in their twenties who figured out their lives. Is that a thing?