I am a reader of books. Always have been, always will be. And yet, over the past few months, I seem to have gone back to the way I read as a child: hungrily, greedily, savouring every last word. Rushing through the last chapters of a book, wanting the ending, hating the end. I have read more books in the last few months than I can remember reading for many years. I have reverted from someone who will enjoy a few good pages each night before sleep to somebody who sits and reads all Saturday afternoon. Who wakes up on holiday mornings and goes back to bed for the next chapter or two or three.
I couldn’t think what had brought this about until I waved the children off to the school bus this morning and realised that it must be because I am no longer knee deep in toddlers. My friends and I talk about many things, but a current favourite is book recommendations. What are you reading? we ask one another. The conversation has shifted over the years from nappies to schools to bedtimes, and now we can talk about books again.
The book I opened last night came out a few years ago. I remember hearing about The Shore, probably on the radio, but it wasn’t until I saw a copy in the library on Monday that it came home with me. Three chapters in, I am transfixed. Short stories are a joy. They are the rock pools of the literary world: all life in microcosm. And The Shore is a whole coastline of them, linked by the tides of family life, by genes and marriages, affairs of the heart, and bloody determination. I am planning our next sojourn over a lunchtime sandwich.
In the meantime, I have knitting to do, and a pattern to work out. It came to my mind in fits and starts all weekend, so that by Monday morning all I had to do was sketch it out and begin on the work of explaining it. I am loving writing these new patterns, and this one, just like Snow Day, is aimed at new knitters. How, I thought all through Monday afternoon, do I make this as simple as possible? The challenge is in rethinking traditional solutions to create something that a person who can just knit and purl can make. To make something simple is devilishly elusive: it is the knitters’ equivalent of those equations that have to be simplified, reduced, distilled to their purest form. You puzzle and frown and then – oh! – you have it, and even the newest knitter can make sense of it all.
I suppose that’s what I’m loving so about The Shore. A book about many generations of a Virginia family, it could so easily have been a multi-volumed saga, full of extraneous details of who said what to whom. Instead, each tale strikes to the heart of its protagonist, so that we know, from a single encounter, who they are, what they stand for, where they came from. I can’t wait to find out more.
What are you reading? Do you have any recommendations?