This month my reading has been much like my writing: scattered and unfocused. Random, even. It’s not that I haven’t read wonderful books, but that I don’t seem to know what I’m reading for. I fear this is because I can’t seem to figure out what I’m writing.

All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews A beautiful book, but one I found it very hard to keep reading at times. I picked it up, I put it down. Over and over again.

The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante This book, like it’s predecessors, manages to capture the propulsive yet meandering nature of life itself. Things don’t happen for reasons, people don’t act in ways that make sense. It’s magical.

The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr I find it disturbing that I disagreed with so much in this book.

Left of the Bang by Claire Lowdon Very British.

The March by E.L. Doctorow I still loved this novel upon rereading, but its portrayal of Black characters disturbed me slightly.

The Forever War by Dexter Filkins Holy shit. Incredible.