Summer reading: Old books and even older letters

I’ve been neglecting this blog shamefully this summer. I blame it on my bookshelves. They are crammed full of books that I haven’t read yet. Many of them from the bittersweet days of snapping up the steeply discounted remnants of the Borders inventory last September. Far more though, are the result of couch-potato shopping fueled by an Amazon Prime account. And then there are the ones that date all the way back to that happy Christmas over a decade ago when my brother gave me a gift card to Half-Price Books. Truly the gift that keeps on giving.

Fifteen years ago I could point to the wide range of books in my house and stun visitors by asserting that I had actually read them all. No longer. I wish I could blame this on the sheer number of medical textbooks that have infiltrated the house under the auspices of my husband, but the sad fact is that my own wanton book-buying habits are to blame.

I have no desire to be one of those people who have an impressive-looking library full of books whose pages have never been cut. Which is why I’ve stopped buying books. For the most part. For now, at least. With the exception of any books that my personal friends write.

Instead, I’ll be shopping my own bookshelves and trying to catch up a bit on the implicit work there. Although my focus will be on reading as many books as possible as quickly as possible so that I can resume the happy pastime of buying them, I’ll still review books on this blog periodically. The really good ones. Once the summer’s over, and winter forces me to huddle with my computer for warmth. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with the odd quote from the middle of some books and very short reviews of others.

And of course, links to things that have caught my eye in the odd moments I’ve spent reading online this week. Like:

So, what are you doing with your summer?

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About Shala Howell

Writer of things ranging from optical network switching white papers to genetic testing patient education materials to historical fiction set in an 1880s asylum. When I’m not scratching my head over pesky characters who refuse to do things how I want them done or dreaming of my next book (which will of course be much easier to write than the current one), my writerly self can be found blogging about life with a very curious Ten-Year-Old at Caterpickles.com, or musing about books and the writing life at BostonWriters.wordpress.com.
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