I had started reading David Mitchell’s Ghostwritten, but then I had to go to the gym, and I have to bring a book with me or I’ll get bored (seriously, sometimes it’s the only way I can get myself to go to the gym. I’ll be all like, ‘If you go ride the bike for half an hour, you can read something non-school-related’ but then when I get there, I’ll whip out my biology textbook and be like, ‘Suckah! You have a midterm tomorrow! Now pedal! And learn! Now, dammit!’), and it has to be something interesting, or I’ll get bored, and I prefer it to be paperback, because it’s easier to hold. Since Ghostwritten was neither paperback nor interesting, I grabbed Timothy Findley’s The Butterfly Plague, which I had lying around.
I’m trying to read more books by Canadian authors. My friend Nikki said this same thing to a sweet old lady behind the counter at a used book store, to which the woman replied, ‘Well, why in the world would you want to do that?’ I’ve talked to people in real life about this, but I’ve never mentioned it here for fear that I would be e-stabbed, but a statement like that makes me want to stand up and cheer. Canadian authors are, by and large, awful.