Fridays are kind of nasty day for me. Work is significantly more stressful (and everyone around me is more stressed)because of weekly deadlines and I’m — without fail — grumpy from lack of sleep. Plus, I tend to put in longer days on Friday (although maybe not … I think they just feel longer). So, other than the cranberry bagels, the only thing I really look forward to is Jezebel.com’s Fine Lines feature.
Every Friday, these fine ladies pick a classic young adult lit book and reread it, review it, relive it. It’s uncanny how many of these I’ve not only read but absolutely adored. And then, the commentators start talking about it and start mentioning their other favorite books. And it’s like they have some wayback machine that gazes into my tween/teenage library. It’s freaking uncanny; I could have sworn I was the only person in the world reading this stuff (frankly, in southeastern Iowa Menno-land, I probably was).
So here’s a Friday toast to great books … not the Joyce and Tolstoy or even the Dickens and Austen but the Paterson and Voigt, the L’Engle and Zindal … to the childhood books that turned me into a reader. To those books that I will continue to read and reread and remember until I am an old crazy lady with too many cats.
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