National Reading day

Today is National Reading Hour Day. I was unaware of this until I saw it on Twitter this morning and I can tell you, it took me some time to process the fact that there might be folk out there who didn't read for an hour a day. One lousy hour!! But then I took stock of my own assumptions and told myself that there were many people too busy, too ill or too uninterested to read for an hour or even ten minutes, reading just not being a priority for them. Hard to imagine, I know.

My attitudes to reading were, predictably, established within my family, probably before I could walk or talk. My mother read every day and we, as kids, could readily identify her impatience if we made demands on her time when, in her eyes, she'd done her duties and it was high time she was allowed escape with a book and read, uninterrupted by us or anyone else. If visitors arrived unexpectedly—it was the country and 'popping in' was common— we could see her getting fidgety, torn between the pleasure of company and the compulsion to indulge in her daily reading time.
Dad? Same. A labourer who left school at 13, he too read voraciously, every evening after work and before dinner, every weekend between chores and yarns with his mates. Wilkie Collins, Emile Zola, Alexander Dumas among others - oh and I confess, for contrast - The Australasian Post.

So my reading habits were set very early and have endured for a lifetime. But if I could only read for one hour a day I would fret mightily!  I read every afternoon, every night in bed and any other times I can fit in.
I committed, on this website, to keep an up-to-date list of what I'd read. Well you know how that went. One anonymous person emailed me and said 'Oh but I count on you for recommendations. Our tastes are the same!' And all that did was make me feel doubly guilty for not keeping the list up to date.

So - I try to read as many Australian debut authors as I can. (Tracy Farr's The Hope Fault my favourite this year.) I love to follow their progress, see on Twitter their joy when the book finally hits the shelves. Although it was sobering to read of one such writer who tweeted that she'd just got her first royalties check and blown it all on an electric toothbrush. So don't go into writing for the money.
Earlier this year, with much ambivalence, I succumbed to a Kindle. I figured it would be handy to read in bed when I can't sleep and don't want to put the light on. What I use it for is to read those things that I read just for the story - crime fiction often - but I still feel like a traitor.
But when I want to read a real book (sorry crime fiction writers everywhere) I somehow acquire the hard copy from some wonderful city bookshop, loans from friends, secondhand bookshops, op shops or just those rediscovered in our own shelves at home.
In a Lifeline op shop in a country town I discovered a newish Anita Shreve - The Stars Are Fire (2017). I was a huge Shreve fan for decades but then went off her when several books in a row proved disappointing. This one was good, original and satisfying. The cover would have put me off if I wasn't desperate for something to read at the time.

In the same op shop I discovered the new Christian White award winner The Nowhere Child, the VPLA winner for 2017. Great story, amazing debut, destined for stage and screen I hear.

From the fabulous resources of The Paris Review I ordered American poet Donald Hall's endearing collection A Carnival of Losses - Notes Nearing Ninety. I don't read a lot of non-fiction but this is one I'll be foisting on everyone as soon as I finish it.

I would never have discovered Donald Hall if I hadn't subscribed to the Paris Review newsletter and now I can't get enough of his poetry. He died just this year in June and I feel unreasonably sad that I'm only discovering him now that he's gone.

One of my best finds recently was a Jennifer Johnson novel that I hadn't read - The Gingerbread Woman.  I love its slightly browning pages and her capacity to immerse us deep into other lives. Along with Penelope Lively, Johnson is one of my favourite Grand Dames of literature.

My problem with keeping up the what-I-have-read list is that, as I approach the last quarter of a book, there grows a tiny simmering anxiety if I don't have the next book lined up at the ready. So instead of turning to update my list I'm fully occupied with finding what to read next. I know I should be borrowing books from some of the wonderful libraries in this city but well, I just don't like the responsibility of knowing I have to give it back. Foolish maybe, but there it is.

The Gingerbread Woman by Jennifer Johnston

I share a love of books with many friends but with one I also share a love of - don't cringe - knitting. We both insist that the finishing of a book or a craft project of some kind is not the best part. It's the starting. The adventure of diving in knowing what satisfaction lies ahead.

This latest Jennifer Johnston isn't all that big so already I'm wondering what I'll read next. Luckily for me, every day is reading day and like the most committed addict, I just have to keep up the supply.

~*~