Shaina Reads

Photo credit: thejbird / Foter / CC BY

When I came up with a list of questions to ask some fellow bloggers last Monday, one of them was, "What is the first book you can vividly remember reading?" This may or may not have been out of the selfish desire to answer this question myself, so I'm just going to pretend that one of you asked me.

Because you're curious, right? Right.

I've been reading since before I began kindergarten. My mother claims I was reading at the age of 2, but my grandma is convinced that I'd just memorized all the books I had at that point. Even that sounds like something more impressive than a two-year-old is capable of, but I digress.

Though I've been devouring books for close to two decades, my first clear reading memory is from the age of 10 or so. I'd recently picked up a mass-market paperback of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. All the cool kids at school were gearing up for the release of The Goblet of Fire (or was it Azkaban? it's a bit fuzzy now), and I finally caved and wanted to see what all the fuss was about because, apparently, I was a very discerning fifth-grader.

I remember sitting in my parents' bedroom as I read the opening lines, and I almost immediately closed the book in terror. There was a line about Dudley getting some kind of toy—possibly a remote control car—and running over the neighbor's dog with it. I was a delicate little thing (and, who am I kidding, still kind of am), and the thought of a boy wantonly injuring an animal was just too upsetting to bear. I had to put the book down, at least for a little while. Eventually, I realized that animal abuse wasn't J.K. Rowling's shtick, and I became fully enamored of the magical world of Harry Potter. It amazes me that I almost missed out on it due to those first icky feelings.

I'll never forget the satiny coating on the book and how it started to bunch up and peel after excessive handling (I found my copy on Google Images, and the wear is just like I remember it). The pages, too, quickly became stiff and crinkly after several bath tub reading sessions with Shaina, Destroyer of Books. I have no idea where the book is now—it probably got beaten up enough for a trip to the garbage can during one of our moves—and I'd probably find it pretty unappealing if I came across it, but it's firmly lodged in my mind as the prototype of my love for reading.

What's your earliest bookish memory?

Got a kiddo? Get him/her this book.

Yesterday I shared a few books I was probably too young to read. It only feels appropriate that today I'm writing about a book that was not at all written for my age group (though, I have to admit, being a twenty-something sometimes feels as confusing as being a teenager).

After an awesome buddy read of Ursula K. Le Guin's The Lathe of Heaven with Julianne, I wanted to try out another of the feminist sci-fi writer's works. The Left Hand of Darkness has come recommended more than a few times, but I ended up checking out A Wizard of Earthsea, the first in Le Guin's young adult fantasy quartet about a young wizard named Ged. I gulped it down in under 24 hours, and my first thought upon finishing it was that my children will have this book on their shelves (or, more likely, the chips implanted in their brains).

I don't even want kids. At this point in my life (and maybe forever), I'd much prefer to read this to my cat. Even so, I couldn't shake the feeling of wanting to shove a copy of it into the hands of every 8- to 13-year-old I see (but not on my Kindle, do you know how grubby kids' hands are? I do; I work with them. Sorry to any children who read this blog).

Anyway, here's three reasons why AWoE rocks (watch out for spoilers!):

1. The moral is awesome. In a nutshell, this is a story of Ged discovering the extent of his own power, and how he can use it for all kinds of ends that aren't so cut and dry as "good" and "bad." There is no "war" against the "bad guys," no vanquishing of light over dark. In fact, the story ends with Ged confronting his own shadow (which he unknowingly released in a moment of pride) and accepting the darkest parts of himself. Corny, simplified? Maybe, but I would also say it's an altogether better message to take away than "good conquers all." What does that even mean? Almost nothing in life can be neatly split into a good and bad binary, least of all complex, contradictory human beings. Another point here is that the darker parts of ourselves don't magically disappear if we ignore them; if we really want to grow and change as people, we first have to figure out what kind of people we are in the first place. And this relates to my next point:

2. Self-acceptance wins the day here. In Earthsea, everyone has their "true name" (one they should keep to themselves and only share with those who will not exploit it) and their "use name" (the name they go by in daily life). This was a great metaphor for a few different ideas: recognizing that you mean different things to different people, that it's perfectly acceptable (even good!) to establish personal boundaries with others, and that you are the only one who can know yourself best. Sometimes I think that self-knowledge and personal growth get muddled in with romance/finding the "one person who really gets you" in YA. There wasn't a single drop of romance in this novel, and it really opened the door for Ged to, in Le Guin's words, "learn to be Ged." I want my hypothetical kids to do their best to know themselves before trying to know (and please) anyone else.

3. This book is chock full of people of color. Most of the citizens of Earthsea we meet in this book have dark complexions, and Le Guin challenges racist stereotypes by inverting them. For example, the Kargish men who raid Ged's village at the start of the story are explicitly described as having "white faces." Obviously, reversing the black vs. white dichotomy isn't doing a whole lot to destroy the "us vs. them" dichotomy itself, but it was still super refreshing, especially for a book published in 1968. I'm reminded of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TED talk about "the danger of a single story." I think the younger we can introduce diverse narratives, the better.

If you haven't read A Wizard of Earthsea, take a few hours to do so. It's available for free through the Kindle Lending Library. I'm off to fan-girl over Ursula K. Le Guin and build a bookshelf for my cat. Fur babies need education, too.

This pug is how I felt this week. Courtesy of Unsplash/Matthew Wiebe.

My oh my, it's been a week. I'm about to hop on the caboose of the #truthtrain, so strap yourselves in.

I spent most of last week chugging toward the weekend, only to have it arrive and not be able to turn off my ever-buzzing brain enough to enjoy it. (Yay, GAD!) I didn't even have lofty plans: visiting a new coffee shop, baking some cookies, getting some reading done. And not one of those things happened (EDIT: lies, I did read A Wizard of Earthsea and will soon be posting about how much I loved it). Instead, I sat on the corner of my couch and fretted. My boyfriend was feeling a bit antsy himself, so we had trouble with our stress feeding into each other. Even the thing that calms us both down (getting some exercise) didn't work its usual magic.

I also did stuff like this:

That's not to say that doing that was bad; I'd been meaning to reflect on this question for a while, and lists help me settle my thoughts down into more manageable chunks. Unfortunately, this one just made me even more obsessive, and not in a way I could channel into productivity (researching programs, reading publications, etc.).

I finally started feeling calm on Saturday evening... only to have a moderate-to-severe allergy attack on Sunday afternoon. A faucet for a nose and hot, itchy skin aren't conducive to tranquility.

ANYWAY. It's a new week, and I'm going to treat it that way.

I was going to share the opening of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote with you all for Bibliophile by the Sea's First Chapter, First Paragraph Tuesday Intros, but it just deleted itself from my Kindle. *shakes fist at library lending periods*

Also, I'm not into today's Top Ten Tuesday topic, so I'm going to make up my own listicle. HA. Take THAT, Broke and Bookish.




I read The Valley of the Dolls at some point late in high school. I guess I wasn't necessarily *too* young to be reading it, but as someone who'd barely had a sip of alcohol before college, I couldn't exactly relate to their level of partying. This goes in the same category as Less Than Zero, which I read around the same time. I was just so ~edgy~, you guys.

I know I found my mom's copy of She's Come Undone while we still lived in my childhood home, so this was a pre-14 read... I was probably around the same age as the protagonist, Dolores, when we first meet her. I scarcely remember the story now, but I do know there was plenty of disordered eating, body hatred, and weird sex.

I took The Bell Jar with me to summer camp when I was thirteen, because nothing says summer fun like existential crises and suicidal tendencies in New York City, am I right? I'm pretty sure I read this one multiple times, but I still don't remember it. It's one of those books I sometimes think about re-reading, but honestly, I think I got the gist well enough the first few times.

Really, this one could be "any Chuck Palahniuk at all," but Haunted takes the cake. I think this one came around late high school as well, and it's another example of how alternative and out there I was as a teenager. I distinctly remember stealing one of the nastier plot points for my own short stories. Oops. "Guts" will forever haunt (hehe) my dreams (and those of some unwitting bookstore patrons). Why did I do this to myself?

What are some books you probably should have waited to read? Or, ahem, not read at all?

Happy Monday, book bloggers!

This weekend, I received not one but TWO tags from Rachelle of The Reading Wench to answer some questions. With that much enthusiasm, how could I say no?

My two questionnaires are after the jump, to avoid clogging up your feeds!

Sometimes you finish a book and the review comes so easily you wonder why you ever have trouble banging out 500+ words on your latest read. And sometimes... it doesn't. Go go gadget mini-reviews!

I've got three, totally unrelated books for you today that were just dandy but didn't inspire long-winded write-ups.


Timebound by Rysa Walker came highly recommended by my light-reading muse, Karsyn of KaKiJoKoJa. Our teenaged protagonist, Kate, reconnects with her grandmother and discovers that Gran's quirky necklace does more than glow–it's a key that allows her to travel through time. At the risk of losing her life as she knows it to other time-travelers bent on changing history, Kate gets a crash-course in time travel and heads to one of the nineteenth century's world's fair in search of answers.

Timebound was a fun, fast-paced story to disappear into for a few hours. Kate is a sharp and funny heroine, and I enjoyed learning about CHRONOS (the time-traveling society), how the key necklaces work, and Kate's grandmother's adventures as a time-hopping historian.

I quickly grew weary of the romantic aspect of the book. Kate waffles between her time-traveling lover Kiernan (who she has yet to really get to know in the first installment, and, therefore, I can't really care about either) and Trey, a classmate of hers from a different timeline. Trey seemed a bit too perfect, and he definitely suffered from a nasty case of instalove. Likewise, I couldn't get behind Kate telling everyone who would listen about her time-traveling granny AND having them believe her. It just wouldn't happen!

While I enjoyed the framework and main thrust of this one, I could have done without a few things (primarily the love triangle) and likely won't be picking up the sequel.


Wool Omnibus by Hugh Howey combined five shorter novels about life in (and out) of an underground silo humanity built after the environment went to toxic, hostile hell. Citizens who question the wisdom of the silo, or express a desire to go outside, are sentenced to "cleaning," which consists of being sent outdoors to clean off the sensors of the silo's cameras before suffocating to death.  The bodies lay in view of the cameras, a powerful reminder to those inside of what can happen if they begin to doubt.

We follow the story of the silo's new sheriff-in-training, Juliette. Initially reluctant to leave her mechanic job and community in the depths, she becomes entangled in investigating a few recent deaths that seem far too convenient to be suicides. When Juliette herself is sentenced to clean, the story is just beginning.

Eerie dystopia in the wake of biological apocalypse? Check. A strong but flawed female lead? Check. Twists and turns along the way? Check. This one has all the makings of a story I would love, and it mostly succeeded. Its biggest flaw lay in the writing itself—for instance, Howey really liked to remind us of Juliette's past as a mechanic, so nearly every problem she encountered became a metaphorical (if not literal) rusty bolt or broken water pump. It's not that it was a bad comparison; it just got old. Also, I never got a sense of what happened to make the world go kaput, and after a 500-page investment, I really didn't want to pick up the prequel to find out.


The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is about a young girl growing up in Nazi Germany at the height of Hitler's rule. Liesel Meminger is given over to foster parents at the age of ten, and her journey to their home includes her first foray into book stealing when she finds a guide to grave-digging (though I won't tell you why). Her love of reading and thieving serve as the thread that carries the reader through her adolescence, and her story is narrated by none other than Death himself.

Another chunkster at 552 pages, readers have plenty of space in which to get to know Liesel, her foster parents Hans and Rosa, and her lemon-haired, wanna-be Don Juan best friend, Rudy Steiner, while Hitler and the Nazi party provide an ominous backdrop for our protagonist's adventures (and misadventures). Death's narration was both witty and poignant.

All in all, this was a lovely story, and I don't know a book blogger who could resist a book about the wonders of reading. However, like I said in my introduction, I just don't have that much to say about it. I would definitely recommend it for someone looking for an absorbing, heartbreaking coming-of-age tale.

Source: New York Times

*All days.

One great perk of working for a university is being exposed to new ideas and findings from the academic community just by reporting to my job every day. My department hosts weekly speakers from each "branch" of psychology, and my boss encourages me to attend any that I find interesting.

Last Monday, my research and book nerdery (nerdity? nerddom?) collided when I took an hour to go see a lecture by Dr. Emanuele Castano. A social psychologist over at The New School, he recently claimed some fame for his research showing a small but reliable bump in theory of mind assessment scores associated with reading literary fiction. Some of you might have even seen the write-up in The New York Times or the one on NPR about it.

To untangle the jargon, "theory of mind" (ToM) is basically the human ability to take others' perspectives into account and recognize that another's thoughts, feelings and desires may be different from your own. Over the course of five experiments, Castano and his colleague demonstrated that participants who read a short selection of literary fiction scored, on average, a few points better on classic ToM tasks than participants who read non-fiction, "popular" fiction, or nothing at all. (Note: I have access to scientific journals through my job, so it's possible you might not be able to open the full article. You should, at least, be able to see the abstract.)

During his talk, Castano assured his readers that, no, it isn't just Chekhov that does it, and he even expressed some regret over choosing the classic author (though it certainly makes for a snappy NYT headline). These findings held for writing by Louise Erdrich (Castano was especially gushy over The Round House),  Don DeLillo, and many others.

So what does this actually mean? It's bad practice to try to extrapolate large meanings or trends from very specific research findings, but it may be that readers of literary fiction are better empathizers. Castano suggested that it could be that literary fiction tends to leave a lot more up to the reader's imagination—the good ol' "show, don't tell"—and forces them to work harder to figure out the characters' motivations.

A shortcoming he acknowledged is that there is no precise metric for deciding what fiction is "literary" and which isn't (for these studies, he selected his literary fiction based on the choices of "experts," such as those who select winners of the National Book Award). He mentioned that he hopes to tackle this problem in future studies, the results of which my inner scientist and bookworm eagerly await.

What do you think about this research? Do you know of any other book-related findings?

Is anyone else in the northern hemisphere battling off some winter doldrums right about now?

New England has been getting slammed with snow and below-freezing temperatures since the start of February. Although my little slice of Connecticut hasn't gotten the worst of it (*waves to Amanda*), I'm still having serious trouble dragging myself out of bed in the morning and feeling energized once I do. See: this GIF. A minor cold last week wasn't helping matters, and I spent the better part of Wednesday dozing in a blanket cocoon on my couch. Thankfully, my mood is a lot sunnier than the weather has been, and I'm hoping I can keep it that way.

On that note, how about some meme fun? Only one this week, so this should more appropriately be titled, "A single Tuesday meme, #1."

This week's Top Ten Tuesday (by The Broke and Bookish) is all about ten book-related problems I have, serious or otherwise. Thankfully, very few of these are real issues.

1. Checking out more library books than I can read. You know how some people are impulse buyers? I'm an impulse checker-outer. I've been known to go to the library and grab five books only to return the next day for four more. Can I really read nine books in three week's time? Nope. This has only gotten worse since I got my Kindle and discovered Overdrive.

2. Reading too quickly. I've always had a problem with wanting to speed through my books, which has only been exacerbated by my Kindle. Amanda (who's rather popular on my blog today) wrote recently about how reading a book quickly is a surefire way for her to not remember it very well. Samesies.

3. Reading too slowly. In contrast, I can sometimes linger over sentences or passages for way too long, resulting in me losing the thread of what I'm reading. Sometimes it's better to just power through the denser sections.

4. Not doing enough besides reading. This isn't always a problem, because, seriously, what beats curling up with a book? Still, I have a lot of other interests—cooking, baking, exercising, seeing friends, and exploring my community—and there are times when I know I'd be better served by getting off my couch and going outside (or, at least, doing something not involving the couch). And, hey, if I get outside, I can always try to find a new bookstore. ;)

5. Destroying my (and other people's) books. I'm the girl who dropped multiple books in the tub (and, occasionally, the toilet) growing up. While I've since learned not to tempt fate in the bathroom, I'm still awful at taking care of my books (broken spines and bent corners galore), and I feel extremely self-conscious whenever someone lends me one to read. I have actually forewarned some people that they shouldn't trust me with their books.

6. Getting too caught up in heavier reads. Those of you who've been reading for a while know I'm a fan of heavy, serious books, and it can take a lot for me to set those aside and go for something lighter. This is one reading habit I really want to change.

7. Not knowing when to quit a bad book. Um, yeah. Yet another thing I don't know how to do, and one that's made for quite a few wasted hours.

8. How to balance ARCs with backlist books. Joining NetGalley and, as of yesterday, Edelweiss (thanks, Julianne!) has me all aflutter over upcoming titles. It can be tough to balance the urge to request all the things with my already-gargantuan TBR pile of older books.

9. Getting more and more behind in my blog feed. The bloggers I follow post so much wonderful content so frequently, and I hate that I can't keep up! Add this to the ever-growing list of Things Shaina Worries About RE: Blogging, along with posting enough, reviewing enough, replying to comments, etc.

10. Not knowing what to read next. This can be a pain, but it also points to something wonderful: the abundance of fantastic books out there waiting to be read!

What are your bookish problems? Link me up!

Note: I planned to post this yesterday. Please channel your past self to read this blog post.

Happy Valentine's/Galentine's/Saturday, everyone! Whatever you do, I hope it involves chocolate and lots of wine.

Over the last week, I was nominated for two separate blogger awards. I figured, what better day than the this commercialized day of love (pardon me, the day of twoo wuv) to share them with you?

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess is the basis for my dad's favorite movie. Incidentally, I first watched the movie adaptation with a guy on whom I had a giant crush because I wanted an excuse to sit in the dark with him and awkwardly try to hold his hand. I don't really remember the movie for this reason, but now, having read the book, I'm not sure I could have purposefully picked a less romantic film. Hormones do funny things to ya.

I'm excited to watch the movie again after reading the book. "Excited" might be a funny word, considering how grotesque the subject matter is, but I want to relive how Kubrick brought Burgess's crime-ridden police state to life. The extent of the world-building for a novel just under 180 pages is remarkable and becomes even more so when the protagonist's infamous dialect is taken into account. Despite its brevity, this book took me days to read, mostly because I had to become accustomed to reading sentences filled with completely novel, Russian-derived words. Here's an example, from the book's opening scene in a milk bar:

"They had no licence for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels And Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg." (pg. 1)

Yep, that's page one. There's a handy little glossary in the back of my book, with which I became very intimate in my reading.

Annoying to some, perhaps, but to me this is where the novel's strength shines through most. For most of the story, our fifteen-year-old protagonist (Alex) is doing atrocious things: beating up old men, raping young girls and knocking over small businesses, to name a few. Yet his near-incomprehensible Nadsat works wonders to remove him (and, thus, readers) from his brutality. Even once I became fluent in Nadsat, I couldn't get past Alex's flippant, juvenile speech patterns for long enough to truly be horrified by his actions. I'd compare it to watching a crime happen through frosted glass—uncomfortable, sure, but some of the bite gets smoothed away.

It's this somewhat muted response that ultimately allows us as readers to sympathize with Alex when he first starts being "treated" for his violent tendencies. I don't want to spoil this bit for you, as it's some real horrorshow social commentary, so all I can do is urge you to pick it up, if you haven't already.

I read A Clockwork Orange for both the 2015 TBR Pile Challenge and my Classics Club challenge.

Sixteen-year-old Maren Yearly has a problem. Ever since she was a baby, she's done this thing whenever anyone tries to get too close to her. She, well, eats them. As the title says, she devours them, skeleton and all, and tosses out their clothes and other inedibles when she's finished (interestingly, the book never specifies the human parts that can't be eaten—I'm still so curious!).

With a little bit of back-story to get us going, this novel really begins with Maren waking up one day to find that her mother has abandoned her, leaving her a small wad of cash and her birth certificate. Having never known his name before, Maren immediately decides to go find her absent father, hoping he can help her unravel her horrifying secret. She gets some help along the way, and we get to hear the stories of a couple other "eaters," likewise trying to get by in a world that can't accommodate their urges. The story moves along briskly, perhaps a bit too much so at the end. Though I was surprised and impressed by some of the climactic events, the ending on the whole felt like more of a whimper.

While the prose itself is nothing to write home about, DeAngelis manages to bring some very intriguing and real quandaries to the forefront, most revolving around the theme of human loneliness. What is life like for mothers who can't bond with their children? How do we become intimate with one another, without one (or both) parties utterly consuming the other? Can we overcome the more "monstrous" aspects of ourselves, or do we ultimately have to accept our core natures? It also struck me that many of the people Maren ended up eating (WARNING: the next part of this sentence could be considered a spoiler) are teenagers and men who come on to her sexually. And there were a lot of them. I felt uncomfortable reading at times, but perhaps this is exactly what DeAngelis wanted me to feel.

However, I can't decide if this dynamic (or any of the more interesting literary devices, really) were intentional. At the very end of the book, DeAngelis makes it very clear in her acknowledgements that she is a vegan and that "the world would be a far safer place if we, as individuals and as a society, took a hard, honest look at our practice of flesh eating along with its environmental and spiritual consequences." (Loc 3675) Note: I'm quoting this from the ARC and cannot claim that it will remain the same in final print. This kind of wrecked the book for me, I'm sorry to say. It isn't that I don't agree that we should be mindful of our eating habits, especially as they pertain to other living creatures, but... it really didn't seem like the thrust of her novel, and this bit of soapboxing struck me as out of place and more than a bit preachy.

All in all, this was a quick, engaging read that would be perfect for anyone with an interest in YA and horror/supernatural elements. While it has plentiful food for thought about the careful balance of intimacy and emotional distance, the story suffered from some choppiness in the plot and what felt like a misplaced agenda. I really wish I'd just glossed over the acknowledgements.

Requisite disclaimer: I received an ARC of Bones & All by Camille DeAngelis from NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Thanks to St. Martin's Press for giving me the chance to read it!

Mondays with Montaigne is a (hopefully) weekly feature about the essays of Michel de Montaigne, French humanist and skeptic of the Renaissance and father of the modern essay. Each Monday, I'll mull over a piece from The Complete Works. I might do this in the order the essays appear in; I might not.

I was a bit nervous to read this week's essay, "Of sadness" (or, depending on the translation, "Of sorrow"). I grapple with anxiety on a near-daily basis, though I have become much better at coping with it than I was when it first reared its ugly head during my middle school days. Anxiety and depression tend to go hand-in-hand—not a big surprise. All of this is to say that after my difficult December, I wasn't sure how I would react to a piece all about the blues.

I shouldn't have worried. As with his other essays so far, Montaigne examines sadness through a historical lens, recalling kings who went to war and watched their children die or become captive with stoic faces, only to melt down at the death of a friend or comrade. Extreme grief, Montaigne says, is a "bleak, dumb and deaf stupor that benumbs us when accidents surpassing our endurance overwhelm us" (pg. 7). The pain we feel after great tragedy is too paralyzing to express, and sometimes only a lesser hurt can finally summon tears.

He reflects on the assertion that those who do not struggle to put their feelings into words may not be feeling that deeply. While I don't agree wholeheartedly, it reminded me of an article I read on TED earlier today about how to have meaningful conversations about mental illness. This quotation in particular resonated:

In Solomon’s words: “Wittgenstein said, ‘All I know is what I have words for.’ And I think that if you don’t have the words for it, you can’t explain to somebody else what your need is. To some degree, you can’t even explain to yourself what your need is. And so you can’t get better.”

I can entirely relate to feeling so full of worry, panic or sorrow but not having the words to describe it. As Montaigne puts it, "In truth, the impact of grief, to be extreme, must stun the whole soul and impede its freedom of action..." (pg. 7). I dare not try to speak for all who have experienced depression, but that's a pretty damned good description of it.

As for Montaigne's own experience of sadness?

"I am one of those freest from this passion. I neither like it nor respect it, although everyone has decided to honor it ... They cloth wisdom, virtue, conscience with it: a stupid and monstrous ornament!" (pg. 6)

OK, down with that, but then comes this:

"I am little subject to these violent passions. My susceptibility is naturally tough; and I harden and thicken it every day by force of reason." (pg. 9) 

To me, this reads a bit suspect. I know that Montaigne fell into deep depression after the death of his close friend and colleague, Étienne de la Boétie (side note that I'm sure will come back in future posts: Montaigne's intimacy with Boétie and apparent lack of interest in his marriage and family have led some scholars to believe he was queer), so for him to assert how "free" he is of it feels much like someone trying to put a melancholic past behind him. I suppose, ultimately, I can't blame him for that.

Any thoughts for me today?

In addition to not knowing when to step away from Overdrive, I have recently become enamored of NetGalley. I was approved for my first ARC last month, and I have found it difficult not to request every semi-interesting title I come across ever since. The only thing holding me back is the thought of all the reviews I would suddenly be obligated strongly encouraged to write.

I have managed to scoop up three titles I'm excited to dive into over the next month or two. Or, perhaps, today—happy weekend!


Headstrong: 52 Women Who Changed Science—and the World, by Rachel Swaby (Broadway Books) As an aspiring lady scientist, this one was an obvious pick. It's chock full of short profiles of lesser-known women who made significant contributions in their respective fields. I anticipate some intense nerding-out. Due out April 7, 2015.

Bones & All by Camille DeAngelis (St. Martin's Press) This is the story of a girl who eats people. (A cannibal, if you want to get more succinct.) I don't know very much about the plot otherwise, beyond the fact that our protagonist has never been able to get emotionally (or physically) close to anyone. This sounds heartbreaking and all kinds of gruesome. Due out March 10, 2015

South Side Girls: Growing Up in the Great Migration, by Marcia Chatelain (Duke University Press) Another non-fiction pick! This one is about how young black women weathered Chicago's Great Migration, primarily focusing on the first wave at the beginning of the twentieth century. History is interwoven with the stories of young women who, fleeing the reign of Jim Crow in the South, had to carve out their place in the industrialized, uncharted territory of the North. Though it's a bit of a buzzword, I appreciate intersectionality in my reading and was especially excited to be approved for this one. I hope to learn a lot. Due out March 13, 2015.

What about you guys? What are you most excited to read soon, ARC or otherwise?

As a fairly new Kindle owner, I'm just starting to learn the ins and outs of using Overdrive to get e-books from my public library and the library of the university I work in. Between the two, I've gone a bit check-out happy, and I'm reading a lot right now. Maybe too much? Is there such a thing? Whatever.

Reading so much is awesome! The less awesome thing is that I'm doing very little posting—or, perhaps more accurately, very little review-writing. I wouldn't call myself "worried" about it yet... I've got a tiny list of books I've read but have yet to sit down and review. However, I foresee that changing very soon.

If I want to keep this blog going, I need balance, which means I need advice. Who better to ask about maintaining your writing mojo than fellow book bloggers?

I saw a few posts going around during Bloggiesta about how to write more creative reviews, or how to write engaging non-review content, but I'm still at a bit of a loss for how you fabulous people manage to generate so many reviews in general.

If you've got any advice for me on any of the below, please let me know! I'd love to hear from you.


Keeping it short today, seeing as the writer's block is fierce. Happy almost Friday, everybody!

Happy Tuesday, everyone! How'd my American readers enjoy the Superbowl? Pizza and the latter third of the Wool Omnibus kept me company throughout, but I definitely paused for the anthropomorphic beach balls. Also, Missy Elliott? Fifth-grade Shaina was thrilled.

I hope all of you live in places that weren't graced with a visit from Winter Storm Linus (or, if you do, that you managed to stay cozy). I got a few eyefuls of freezing rain and a thorough leg workout during my walk to work yesterday. I pity the very few other people braving the weather who had to listen to me grumble.

Memes!

As usual, we'll start off with Top Ten Tuesday, hosted by The Broke and Bookish. Today's theme: ten books I can't believe I haven't read from my genre of choice. Classics, I choose you! (More fifth-grade references.)


I feel like half of these are books I was supposed to read and cry/swoon over in my teens, and I (and my English teachers, apparently) completely bypassed them. I can't wait to finally get to them and channel all that adolescent angst.

And we'll close with First Chapter, First Paragraph Tuesday Intros, hosted by Bibliophile by the Sea. Today I'm spotlighting The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, which I started on Saturday.

First the colors. 

Then the humans. 

That's usually how I see things. 

Or at least, how I try. 

HERE IS A SMALL FACT. 

You are going to die. 

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

This one's got a compelling storyline, an unusual format, and a witty, morbid narrator. So far, so good.

Got an intro? Ten books you can't believe you haven't read already? Link me up!

You know that giant doorstop full of Michel de Montaigne essays that I got for the holidays? Well, I want to read it. This isn't exactly a two- or three-sitting read kind of book, and I don't think it should be. I want to savor the collection week by week, which leads me to my newest feature:

Mondays with Montaigne is a (hopefully) weekly feature about the essays of Michel de Montaigne, French humanist and skeptic of the Renaissance and father of the modern essay. Each Monday, I'll mull over a piece from The Complete Works. I might do this in chronological the order the essays appear in; I might not.

All right, let's get to it! This week's essay is "By diverse means we arrive at the same end." (Note: Quotations will differ somewhat based on translation.)

In his first piece of Book One of his Complete Works, Montaigne reflects on the inconsistent nature of humankind. In fact, the three-and-a-half page essay can best be summarized by one quotation:

"Truly man is a marvelously vain, diverse, and undulating object. It is hard to found any constant and uniform judgment on him." - pg. 5

He relates several tales of war, in which royalty of Wales, Bavaria and Thebes, among others, react to common-folk who defy their attempts at conquest; they are either so impressed by the dauntless men and women who dare stand up to them or so astonished by their audacity that they each gave up their pursuits. However, he offers another example in Alexander the Great, who remained unmoved by acts of valor—faced with the brave and silent Betis, he tortures him to death, vowing to "conquer his muteness yet." Montaigne muses as to why courage vexed Alexander so:

"Could it be that hardihood was so common to Alexander that, not marveling at it, he respected it the less? Or did he consider it so peculiarly his own that he could not bear to see it at this height in another without passionately envious spite?" - pg. 5-6

It is a fascinating question, particularly for those interested in human psychology: why do we as humans have such varying responses to one another? And why, sometimes, do these vary within a single person? Beyond the psyche, these questions also bring up broader ideas about how context and environment come into play, as well as very broad questions of free will vs. fate. Do we really have as much control as we think?

What say you, reader? Why do we differ so much in our reactions, even from day to day, and how much control do we really have over them?