Well, I was planning to write about the books I've read so that I can finally update that sad little "Books in 2010" list in the sidebar, but wouldn't you know it? I didn't plan well and forgot to bring my stack of recent reads out of the bedroom. And now poor old Rusty is asleep and I don't have the heart to clomp around gathering them.
So in lieu of my penetrating and always-fascinating insights into the modern novel, I thought I'd follow up on an idea that was twigged by my last post, where I talked about my shitty memory. As proof of this fact, I thought it would be fun (well, fun for me; you're on your own) to go through the archives and see how many books I flat-out cannot remember reading. Prepare to be amazed.
Dear god. Apparently I read Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2. Wow. I may reel from this for days. Apparently it made me weepy. Apparently I have a heart of stone because I remember none of this.
Sadly, I also don't remember reading Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer. Blasphemy! But let's be honest with each other here: as awesome as she is, we all know Kingsolver doesn't always hit 'em out of the park. I'm not going to be too tough on myself.
And I read... a Candace Bushnell novel? Really? I mean, I'm the only person who has the passwords and stuff to post here, and I'm reading a post about Lipstick Jungle right here, so I guess I read it. Huh. I would feel shame, but I'm too busy being confused.
Did you know Margaret Atwood wrote a collection of vignettes called Moral Disorder? You did? Because I didn't. Or at least, I thought I didn't until I realized that I read them four years ago. Go figger.
And then there's the collection of Eudora Welty's early short stories, A Curtain of Green. I'm sorry, Eudora. You may belch like a champion, but you still deserve better than me.
And we all know how 2008 and 2009 went.
So there you have it. Perfect evidence of my imperfect memory. As if I needed to be humbled further.