Taft rocks

Here’s kind of what it’s like to live inside my head: Blah blah Oscars! blah blah State of the Union? blah blah Supreme Court going to hell blah blah Global Warming has made it springtime here (and not just for Hitler) blah blah shiny object? where? blah blah crap, I so need to do laundry blah blah time to read.

So I finished a book today, and it was amazing. I thought it was going to be a light read, a popcorny kind of book, and it ended up being wonderful. “Taft” by Ann Patchett. It’s like a short story, but it’s a book! It flies by. It’s well-crafted, that’s the best thing I can say for it, so there’s all of the usual pieces of set-up and all of the signs are there that it’s all going to boil over and yet, when it happens it’s still a surprise, but a surprise that feels natural. I am excited about this book. I am excited about writing after this book, and since I haven’t touched anything, writing-wise, since sending off grad school applications, that’s really saying something. Sometimes I forget about the strength and wisdom and fallability that a first-person narrative can give, and next time I do I’m going to remember this book (right up next to “The Bean Trees” by Kingsolver) so I can set myself straight.

I now owe a lengthy and appreciative, hand-written letter to the friend who sent me over this book, as she’s not here in person to absorb my enthusiasm. Also because, when cleaning my living room, I realized I have enough stationary sitting around that with some decent glue sticks I could build the world’s prettiest and most useless arc.

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