The other day, I sat down and made a list of every book I’ve read in 2023 so far. Maybe I was feeling particularly jobless, I guess (though, as someone pointed out, I was “jobless” enough to sit and read them anyway, so it’s kinda moot).
I hold a great enmity toward Goodreads reading challenges. Here’s what happens: at the start of the year, in a sudden burst of short lived enthusiasm, I set the Goal.
The next time I open Goodreads (months later), I see my sad, abandoned little challenge still at 3 out of 40 (or 50 or even 100 that one ambitious year) books read. I curse. I scramble to add every book I’ve read in the past few months. I give up five minutes later, because I have the attention span of a guppy fish.
So. Painstakingly writing down the name of every single book is better than the 0.5 seconds it takes to update that Goodreads challenge. Obviously.
Here’s what I’ve read this year:
I started out with Game of Thrones in January, which I ended up liking despite having no intention to do so for years.
I read Daisy Jones and the Six in March. The beachiest beach read.
It spurred me to binge read other books by Taylor Jenkins-Reid, so I read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, Malibu Rising, and Forever Interrupted in April. It’s hard to chose a favourite, but Malibu Rising wins.
A friend lent me Anne of Avonlea, which I found alright. She then suggested I try out Thomas Hardy.
I started with Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It’s the unlikeliest one-sitting book I’ve ever read, but I practically devoured it. I couldn’t look away from Tess’s despair. The short bursts of hope, and the eventual spiral down to tragedy. I fell in love with the writing. The countryside landscapes.
I could go on and on about Hardy’s writing. It’s so good. But maybe another post.
This lead to my spiral down a rabbit hole of victorian era classics. I read Jude the Obscure in May, at a more reasonable pace. I was depressed for a week after I finished it. Following which I read The Woman in White. I ADORED it, and it needs a whole other post to fawn over too.
Tiny mention to Agnes Grey, which was a sweet little read. (Controversial opinion: Anne Bronte is my favourite Bronte sister).
I wanted to read North and South, but since the bookstore didn’t have the edition I wanted and I’m picky, I bought Mary Barton. Which was great. I’m sold on Gaskell’s writing.
In June I read Yellowface by RF Kuang. Worlds away from the Poppy War, yet so good. Amazed how this woman churns book after amazing book yearly.
In July, another friend rec’d me Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica. The title is very literal. It’s about a world where cannibalism is socially acceptable and humans are raised as meat for slaughter. Sighs. Another post.
My finals ended around July, and I spent the break catching up with a few thrillers. The Younger Wife by Sally Hepworth and None Of This Is True by Lisa Jewell were very fun to read.
In August, I read A Thousand Splendid Suns. I might have cried.
The last notable mention is the Hunger Games. I’ve always (unfairly) thought it was a silly little dystopian YA series. I ended up finishing the trilogy in a span of a week, and The Mockingjay overnight. I would have loved this when I was 12, but I’m glad I read it now to understand a lot of the themes and nuances I would’ve missed then.
I’ve read some pretty amazing books this year and I hope the list grows to 50 by the year end.
Phew. Now that I’m done rambling about these books, a tiny life update. Bear with me.
I didn’t think I would ever update this blog again. I wasn’t reading a lot the past couple of years. All my book reviews have mostly been incoherent rants on my instagram stories which probably no one reads. College kicks my ass more often than not.
My friend and I were bored out of our minds in our DSA class. So she did the logical thing and started reading my blog. Begging, pleading, threats of bodily harm, the slightly deranged look in my eyes didn’t stop her. And so she read. (Every. Single. Post. Which I doubt anyone’s done).
As I stewed in the embarrassment of someone reading what I wrote at 12 (in front of me), it was a weirdly nice stroll down the memory lane. And she was so, so incredibly sweet about it.
It reminded me how fun it used to be, to come on here and rant about books. I don’t want to lose that.
Who knows, I might still end up writing the next post a year later with another “life update”. I hope not. I have so much to talk about, so many incoherent rants to make.
And thank you, if you’ve reached the end of this incoherent rant. Until next time. < 3
Bookwormtopia 