I’ve not been writing much lately, and by that I mean spending time on my own personal essays and fiction. It’s true our pack has grown and there are ‘puppies’ to care for and best intentions are frequently scuppered by the random pitfalls of daily life (a broken refrigerator, a sick dog, a room needing painted), but when time does open up I inevitably spend it writing about someone else’s words. I do this because I love it, but also (I confess) because it makes me feel ‘productive’ without having to wrestle with (and sweat the necessary blood and tears over) my own sentences. Please God, I don’t think I’m one of those who come onto the field after the battle to stab the wounded, but I admit to having built a wall of books between myself and the page. A cunning form of procrastination (thought my self-delusional self), but I’d underestimated the bullshit detector who is my better-half. He asked some time ago how my own work was going and after I’d listed all the books I’d still to read and review, and all the other folk’s manuscripts I’ve still to edit etc, etc, etc, and after the litany of “and there’s this, and this, and that,…” had finally dribbled to a stop, he said, “Who gives a fuck about your blog?” Who indeed? 
Furthermore, I’m feeling motivated and excited by the new projects I currently have on hand, a feeling that had lain dormant for some time while our lives adjusted to the daily wonder of parenthood.  I will review on request now and then (I hope), in print and on radio, and return to this space periodically to update my current and classic recommendations, and let you know what I’m reading – but any additional reviews will most likely be brief.  Meanwhile, it’s goodbye to all that…