Left to my own devices, I am as likely to get into reading ruts as I am to zoom all over the genre and topic map, trading fantasy for nature writing for literary fiction for an anthology of essays for a memoir about a place or a neighborhood or one moment in time...
This year, though, I've been reading almost exclusively science fiction, which is a trip. It's limiting and eye-opening at once, an experience that is fascinating and weird and sending me down a lot of random meandering paths about what exactly science fiction is, what it does, what it ought to more frequently encompass, and what beautifully porous boundaries it has...
I have a contrary brain; fed a steady diet of something it loves, it insists that it wants something else, another flavor, a bit of variety. It insists, basically, that it wants to break any rules I have set for it, and smash all habits like so many old plates...
I buy books I am incredibly excited to read and then I let them gather dust on a shelf. I order things out of absolute rushes of interest and then decide it's not the time...
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