I’ve been thinking about my last post, and it’s got me feeling a bit annoyed. It’s no big time annoyance, like underage Chinese gymnasts. More like itchy sweater annoyance.
The thing is, I love talking about books, but the critic role doesn’t fit. Mostly I just want to love the books I love, and I want to talk and write about loving them. Think of me as books’ grandmother. I just want to put their artwork on my refrigerator, bake them cookies, and brag about them to my friends. If books fall short of my expectations, I think I’d rather ignore it. And what’s the harm in that? From now on, I’ll write about books I’m reading that I love, books I’ve read that I love, and books I want to read that I think I’ll love. And I’ll leave the critiquing to a mean old mom somewhere.