Birthday Books

Many apologies for being so quiet this week; a combination of writing deadlines and what seems to be the usual family crises have kept me away from the blogworld. We’ve had relentlessly bad weather, with snow flurries on many days, and my indoors entertainment has been quite the most boring biography (no, I tell a lie, I read one on James M. Cain that just pipped it) of French writer, Andre Gide. Note to all would-be famous writers: please do not spend your time travelling. It makes for many dull chapters enlivened only by the sort of falling out with travelling companions that was undoubtedly important at the time but loses much when recounted at dry length decades later.

However, the weekend has redeemed the week by being very nice and relaxing. And my birthday today has been lovely. I thought you might like a look at the book loot. Some wonderful non-fiction: biographies of Wilkie Collins and Hemingway and James Lasdun’s account of being stalked for years by a madly hostile ex-creative writing class student (wonderful car crash literature, I couldn’t resist starting it); some delightful crime: Perry Mason, Ruth Rendell, 1920s detective fiction from Frances Brody, and the most recent book by Graham Joyce; and some really tempting new novels in a mix of genres. Oh and the little one on top is The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, read by Miriam Margolyes. I have the usual problem of wanting to start them all, right away.

And thank you all for the excellent suggestions and comments on the previous post. I need to have a quick word with Dark Puss to see what he wants to read and I’ll let you know what we decide on doing. Now I must away and gloat some more over my new books…