For a writer, I sure am behind on my reading. In a previous post I talked about why that was—between school and then editing for a living I just didn’t have it in me to look at any more words—but over the past few months I’ve developed a ravenous hunger for fiction.

I realized I have a lot of catching up to do. Because the books I’ve been reading are at the very least a few years old, and most of them over a decade, I’ll spare the review and just give a few impressions, in the hopes that you too will pick them up and love them as I did.

I’m still not sure why I picked up Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, but it was definitely the book that “broke the seal”. It’s one of those books that, when you’ve finished reading, you just want to re-read immediately. It’s the story of four characters, unknown to one another—a man fetching water for his family, a man seeking food, a sniper, and the titular cellist—who must make their way in war torn Sarajevo. The language itself is relatively simple and spare, almost matter of fact, which is pivotal to its impact in telling the story. It points to the banality of conflict, but also to how the most quotidian of activities, juxtaposed against the backdrop of war, becomes completely horrific. It’s also the acceptance of this horror, and the fact that the characters remembered a time before conflict and have hope for a time without it in the future, that also gives the reader hope and engages her completely in the story.

In keeping with the war theme, albeit unintentionally, I read Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels. Whereas the language in Cellist was spartan, Fugitive Pieces was like having your brain dipped in caramel—deep pleasure to wade through and come out sticky at the end. It’s a work that describes the persistence of memory and quiet survival in the face of loss. Each of the characters have incredible detailed inner lives in which they each try to measure impacts, the hows and whys of their grief, while attempting to carry on “normal” lives. It’s a book of hushed tones and darkness, which turns into heat and light.

So, I’ve embarked—on the good ship Self-Employment. I staged a cubicle coup and left the confines of the 9 to 5 (or, in my case, the 8:30 to 5, with a half hour for lunch).

You may think it’s all rainbows and sleeping in. You may picture me shuffling about in my bathrobe until sometime just before noon, when I finally clean myself up enough to go out for coffee before settling in for a strenuous 4 hour work day. But you would be wrong. I work just as hard, if not harder, than I did before I liberated my soul.

However.

There are some days—not many, but certainly a few—when I just can’t seem to get it together to manage my time properly. I dawdle. I waffle. I’ll use just about any word I can think of that ends in ‘le’ just to not have to think about it. I’ve made lists only to ignore them. I’ve set priorities only to re-prioritize them over and over until they no longer even make sense.

So, what does one do in this situation? There’s lots of advice on this from any number of productivity gurus, everything from making promises to others so you’ll make good, to delegating, to creating mini-milestones. For me, no amount of shame is too great to tolerate and no amount of joy found in having the opportunity to boss someone else around for a change is enough to make me productive. The only thing that works for me is: pick one thing. Then do it. Until it’s done. Then be happy with that. And move on. If you’re anything like me, chances are you’ll be so chuffed with yourself at having done something—anything—that you’ll do something else as well. And if not, at least the whole day wasn’t a wash.

Yesterday, as I walked down the sunny autumn street, headphones on, I realized I was smiling. I also realized I am never so happy, so expansively filled with magnanimity as I am just before I leave for a trip. It seems at those moments that it is what I am meant to be doing all the time.

And so, I leave this quick missive to let you know there will be photos and experiences to share on my return.

Ciao, friends!

Ever since I can remember, summer to me has meant barefooted days spent stretched out on a blanket reading. I’d get lost between the pages, traveling through imaginary worlds for entire days, preferring to keep my eyes cemented to the book during lunch than to break the spell for even the few moments it took to gulp down a PB&J.

When I started working summer and evening jobs, then went to university out of high school it started to change. I still read fiction for my English lit classes, and squeezed in a few pleasure reads where I could, but it wasn’t the same. I’d pick up the book and get the little buzz I always did from starting a new story, but I’d get through a few pages before either feeling guilty for enjoying myself instead of studying, or just passed out from exhaustion. There was no more losing track of time making friends of new characters, weaving my way through serpentine plot lines, breathlessly reaching the climax of the narrative, enveloping myself in the afterglow of a freshly finished book. Instead, I read with purpose. Absorb. Retain. Dissect. Synthesize. Regurgitate. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Over the course of the past few months, though, I’ve come back to fiction. Certainly at nowhere near the pace with which I used to consume books (and I still pass out from end-of-day exhaustion after just a page or two), but a lot more than I have in recent years. Even though I write and edit for a living, I find that I still have the energy and desire at the end of the day to drift off into another world. Maybe it’s the heat, the late sunlight, or maybe it’s just that I’m calmer and ready to revisit the time in my life when I wasn’t too busy to just venture off into new territory.

Now that I have a real summer vacation coming up, one that doesn’t involve much travel and therefore too much sightseeing to squeeze into a what seems like a minuscule period of time, I’m excited about what books to dive into. I have two weeks of time to once again slip between the cool pages and visit someone else’s mind for a while. So, I’m taking suggestions. What’s your desert island book? A must read that maybe I haven’t heard of? Or the newest thing you’ve come across–a hot new author or title? Give me something strange, something precious, something funny or something sweet–or all of the above.