Working title...

When I title this, I find a particular smile creeping to my face. Mostly, if you were wondering, from the irony of it: This is an escape from any real work.

I've had a bit of writer's block recently. Things that are 500 words or fewer have been fine, but any sort of prolonged narrative has evaded me of late. So, my solution, is to finish a literary essay tonight. For those of you who both read this, and are not in constant communication with me (I have between one and three readers at any given time, and that description applies to two of you), I have been trying to write nonfiction. I wonder at my ability to write fiction in the spring. Most things that I've written in spring time over the past few years have been a touch to elegiac for my tastes, and I wonder if nonfiction memoir or essay is a better fit.

My habits are so closely linked to the seasons. I'm prolific in the summer time, a waste in the winter, carefully trimmed in my prose during the autumn months-- though I usually only churn out one thing that I'm particularly fond of-- and a wispy, emotional sack in the spring. Perhaps I should turn to poetry? Perhaps not.

Lists seem to be something popular on blogs. In no particular order, here are some of my favorite books I've read in the past year:

David Sedaris- Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.
Jo Ann Beard- The Boys of My Youth.
Vladimir Nabokov- Lolita*
John Updike- Pigeon Feathers*
The Touchstone Anthology of Nonfiction.
Michael Chabon- Wonderboys.


*Denotes a book that I haven't yet finished, but still endorse so far.