I practically devoured The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier in record speed. I absolutely loved it. I felt carried back into time. When I told HG this, she asked me what it was about. I said it was about the making of a the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry, and the stories of the people involved in it. So what happened? Nothing and everything. The protagonist, who is also the villain, did not get the girl in the end. And no one exactly lives happily ever after. But everyone’s lives change before and after the making of the tapestry.

So what did I love about it? I guess the way it was written. I usually don’t like lengthy descriptions, but Chevalier did it just right. It was enough for me to come up with an image in my head, but not so long and confusing that it bore me. I also loved that the story was written from different character’s perspectives, so you understand where everyone is coming from, and how this story came to be. It feels real. Of course, I also got a thorough understanding of the tapestry in question. I looked it up. It’s in the Musee National du Moyen Age in Paris. I can’t wait to look it up the next time I’m in town!

Next up, maybe Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls?

One thing I did learn during this course is that apparently writing related segments, and then putting it together really does work. Here is my finish product for the course. Hope you enjoy, and constructive comments are welcome.

***************

While my brother, Ocean and I still live at home together, we’re really more like neighbors.

Every morning my brother leaves the house at 6am. He’s a chef, and needs to get into work early to make preparations for the day, working odd hours (including weekends and public holidays). I have an office job, and barely leave the house before 9:30am. Sometimes when I have a late night out on weekends, or cannot sleep, I’d hear him in the bathroom going through his morning routine. Not long after that, I’d hear the front door banging shut. Once I woke up at an ungodly hour early on a Sunday morning for a marathon and we left home together. In the evenings, I get home at around 8pm, just in time to say goodnight to him. That is pretty much the extent I see my brother in daily life. Otherwise his presence is only felt in the slippery bathroom floor and the empty freezer where my ice cream is supposed to be.

Once in a blue moon, when he and I are both home for the evening, and he’s in a good mood, he’d come over to tell me about his latest girlfriend, or all the planning he has done for his upcoming trip to Japan. I am always amazed by the diligence he applies to planning for Japan (if only he were half as diligent at school!). This occurs every few months, whenever he has saved enough money to go. Personally, I don’t get this earn it and spend it concept (I’m more of a save for a rainy day kind of girl), but over the years, I’ve learnt to be encouraging and non-judgmental. Behind his gruff I-am-too-cool-to-care exterior, is a sensitive soul. Besides, I leave the censorship to to my parents.

But even on that front he gets off easy, and pretty much does whatever he wants. He brings random girls he meets on the internet home, never cleans up after himself, never shows up for family events and is in general downright rude. It is not because he’s a boy, and my parents are typical Asian parents who favour boys. But (I suspect) because they feel guilty about his traumatizing childhood (he was academically challenged, and spent his childhood either at school or after-school school), which culminated to what we thought was anorexia when he came back from studying in Canada after a year, looking like a skeleton (being a huge McDonalds fan, he was borderline obese when he went!). That, and because my parents just don’t know what they can do with him. After so many years, he’s pretty much immune to any parental rebuke (and he’s much too old for the stick).

As for me, you know what they say; you can choose your friends, but not your family. We are so different, that under normal circumstances, we probably would never have even spoken. But yet, here we are. He is the only other person in the world who has both my mother and father’s blood running through him. There has got to be some love in there somewhere.

*****

I’ve not always been this sanguine about my brother however. Before he came along, life was pretty sweet. I was an astronaut, and the world revolved around me. You see that spike below, in the late 1980s? That was me and my parents.

Reference: Chinese Immigrants in Canada: Their Changing Composition and Economic Performance, by Shuguang Wang and Lucia Lo, Blackwell Publishing Ltd.

As most middle class Hong Kong families did back in the late 1980s in fear of the the imminent handover of Hong Kong back to China in 1997 (especially after the 1989 Tienanmen Square Massacre), my family moved to Canada when I was about three to sit out our four year immigration “prison sentence.” Like most Hong Kong immigrants, we didn’t actually want to leave Hong Kong (the economy was booming and fortunes were being made), we just wanted the option in case the Communists come and take over all our hard earned money and put us all into hard labor (as they had done to our ancestors  before they fled to Hong Kong). As a result, many “astronauts” were created. Not the floating around in a space suit kind of astronaut, but the kind who spent a lot time flying in the air between Canada and Hong Kong to get their passport and work at the same time.

My father was an astronaut; and to some extent, my mother and I were astronauts too.  We flew back and forth quite frequently, spending about half the year in Canada and the other half in Hong Kong. My mother grew up surrounded by a large and boisterous family in Hong Kong, and could not stand the cold and radio silence of Toronto. She barely spoke English or knew anyone there at the time, so there really was only so much she could do. There were only so much pretend telephone conversations and meals (real and make belief) one can have with a chatty three year old; and only so much one can shop at Eaton and “Hope Renview” (it was only much later that I found out that my mother’s favourite store was actually called “Holt Renfrew”).

Kindergarten was only a distant afterthought. Between flying around and basking in my parent’s love, I did not have time for it; and I hated it. I cried so hard my first day in my Canadian kindergarten near Chinatown, that my mother, the softie that she is (or perhaps she missed me too?), gave in and didn’t take me back afterwards. The school principal called a few days later to find out where I went, and tried to convince my mother that it was normal for a kids to cry when left in a foreign environment, and that I’d get used to it soon.

While others remember stealing kisses from the girl on the bus (or vice versa), I remember the ugly yellow uniform of my Hong Kong kindergarten. I remember playing the drums by myself in the corner next to the window, staring out into space. Even at such a tender age, when children still played indiscriminately, I failed to connect with anyone. Later this would lead to years of self-doubt and confidence issues. But at that moment, I just wanted my mommy!

*****

Not long after we moved to Canada, my mother got pregnant. Because her baby bump was very ’round’ at the time, she was convinced that it was a girl (a boy is supposed to have a sharp baby bump, according to wherever traditional Chinese superstitions come from). So for many months before the baby was born, I would cuddle next to my mother in the family living room next to the kitchen, where the white marble fireplace which we never used was. I’d gently put my cheeks on her stomach and talked to “Hoi Fa” (meaning “ocean flower” in Chinese – my chosen name my unborn sibling) in three year old gibberish, while my mother watched TV. After so many years by myself (there were no such things as play groups back then), I couldn’t wait to have a REAL LIVE baby sister to play with. I was going to be the best-est elder sister ever. We were going to do everything together in matching red outfits and pig tails!

Before my mother had a chance to get a proper scan to confirm her conviction however, her water broke on the eve of October 30, 1990 (3 months early!). After over 24 hours of labor having me, she wasn’t going to rush to the hospital just to wait and have oily hair for the rest of the week (another traditional Chinese superstition dictates that women should not wash their hair immediately after giving birth, and should at least wait a few days). She very calmly finished making dinner for me, called in reinforcements to look after me and washed her super curly, shoulder length hair before heading to the hospital. My brother was born shortly after by cesarean. When I found out, I ran up our long curving staircase to my room, jumped onto my bed and promptly burst into tears. Despite my aunt Anita and uncle Peter’s best efforts, I was heartbroken. My baby sister had turned into an icky boy. I fell asleep staring mournfully at my Mickey Mouse lampshade.

Needless to say, the arrival of my brother was marred with disappointment and nagging feelings, which I eventually identified as jealousy. It was not so bad at first. My mother came back a few days later, and the three of us (my mother, my father and I) went out for dim sum as usual. Since my brother was born premature, he had to stay for further observation at the hospital, inside a small plastic box. My mother marveled at the highly professional (and convenient) service of hospitals in Canada. There were round the clock nurses and and at least three pediatricians looking after my baby brother – all for a fraction of the cost of my uncomplicated birth in Chicago (a point which my father marveled at). My mother had absolutely nothing to worry about. Instead of staying up all day and night feeding and changing diapers, she was relaxing and enjoying herself with a nice cup of tea. After a week though, the hospital called asking my parents where they were, and why they had not come to visit at all. They thought that my parents had abandoned their newborn. I wish they had! Having just immigrated to Canada less than a year ago from Hong Kong, their English vocabulary had just not extended to “visitation” yet.

*****

When I envisioned the arrival of my new sibling, my three year old mind had not factored in the fact that it would take my parent’s attention away from me. Indeed, I thought there would actually be one more person in my orbit to circle around me. Parents nowadays try to ease the entry of a second child into a household, by presenting the first child with gifts from their new sibling to generate good will. But my mother is fifth of seven children and my father is second of three. They have absolutely no concept of what an unwelcome intrusion a sibling is to a single child. I was suddenly thrown out of my limelight, and I did not like it at all.

It was dark days for me after that. I don’t remember much (I hear that the mind  automatically blocks out unpleasant memories), but from what I’ve gathered in home videos, it was cringe worthy. Every time I see those videos, my heart goes out to that little girl. One in particular featured my brother lying naked in all his glory, in a small tub full of water in the shower, while my mother kneel next to him giving him a bath. My father stood next to them, holding his huge rectangular video camera over his shoulder, taking a video. And in the background, you can hear the voice of a little girl, repeatedly going “daddy daddy, look at me!” Then the camera shakes a bit as my father glances back and reproaches the little girl, telling her to be quiet. I stop watching after that, as embarrassment and rejection overcomes me all over again.  I was supposed to be the focal point of my father’s big black machine. I am camera shy now, but back then I was a natural (perhaps this is where my camera shyness stems!)! I would just look straight at the lens and talk non stop, showing my invisible audience a photo album or just go about cooking in my toy kitchen, while my mother cooked in the real kitchen next to me.

Eventually I got over the fact that I have a brother instead of a sister (I even started to appreciate that I never have to share my clothes). I learnt to share the limelight, and appreciate the distraction (the trick is to be the most obedient, well behaved and hardworking little girl ever). At one point, my brother and I were even close. We’d flip over the plastic slide in our living room and play star ship. Or make tents out of our mother and fathers’ blankets, and played house with our stuff toys. I was the mother, he was the father and the stuff toys were our kids. Our domestic bliss however inevitably came to an end, as we fought over our “kids” and got into more and more hair pulling fights, which always ended with “Mooooooooom!!!!!” whereby we’d get sent to our respective rooms. Then my brother discovered video games, and I discovered books. That was pretty much when we started to become neighbors.

I tried to give a darker twist to the story, instead of the straightforward, his grandma loves him too and really missed him etc. I thought of why the little boy was placed to live with his grandparents in the first place and came up with this:

****************

Just as I was getting ready to make dinner, my sixteen year old daughter, Carol burst into the house, with tears in her eyes looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“What’s wrong sweetheart?” I asked.

“I’m pregnant” she sobbed, “and it’s not Harry’s.”

Harry was the captain of the football team, Carol’s high school sweetheart and her fiance. They were getting married in June.

“What am I going to do mother? What am I going to do?” Carol cried.

****************

Lee was born 7 months after Carol and Harry married. He had blue eyes and wisps of blonde hair. He looked nothing like Carol or Harry.

“He looks just like Carol when she was born!” I exclaimed.

****************

I suspect that the circumstances of Lee’s birth was a point of contention for Carol and Harry’s marriage. Harry never showed much interest in Lee. Shortly after Lee was born, Carol and Harry left him with me and Martin, and moved to Jackson, Mississippi. They wanted to get settled in first without the burden of a child.

A few months became a year, and a year became six. I began to pray that Carol and Harry would never come back for Lee. Bit by bit, Lee had sneaked into my heart, and I loved him as my own (perhaps even more so!). He was a smart and adorable little boy. Always up to some mischief or another. He filled the void in my life, left behind after Carol, Sam and Buster left home.

*************

In late 1950, just as Lee started first grade, Carol called. She had just given birth to her fourth child, Doug, earlier that year and she wanted Lee back to help take care of his siblings.

I missed Lee terribly. But I was too busy to dwell too much on it. Martin had just bought a bakery in Biloxi. After so many years penny pinching, we finally had enough to open the bakery of Martin’s dreams (a friend of a friend was also moving and was willing to sell it to us at a discount).

But Martin’s dream soon turned into my nightmare. I watched as he became a slave to his dream. He woke up at 3:30am and didn’t stop working until 9:30pm. The bakery consumed his life. He barely nodded when I told him that Lee had just had his tonsils taken out and was at the same time circumcised, and that I was sending him a bicycle for Christmas. We were going to teach Lee how to ride that year.

Then one day, just when I came home after a visit with Annie Tosh, a sergeant at the Keesler Air Force Base, the phone rang. It was Carol. Lee wasn’t adjusting well to the family and was causing trouble, she said. She wanted us to take him back. I knew something was wrong. Lee was a very an energetic boy, but he was also conscientious and thoughtful. He would never deliberately cause trouble.

************

Neither Martin and I could drive, but luckily one of my neighbors were available and kindly offered to drive me to Jackson to pick up Lee. In thanks, I made my signature Southern Fried Chicken for the trip, and shared my secret recipe with them afterwards.

Later that night, as I was helping Lee wash off all the grit from the road, I saw in horror the black and blue marks on his back and legs, and swallowed a gasp.  I never imagined that Harry could be capable of such violence. No wonder Carol had to send him back to us!

Lee never quite recovered from that beating, and became very susceptible to sickness. He caught the chicken pox, and all sorts of colds and flu viruses that year, and ended up spending much of his time at home. He didn’t even have the energy to learn how to ride a bike. In the end, Martin sold the restaurant side of the bakery, partly because of his health and partly so we can spend more time taking care of Lee.

Recently there has been some construction going on near my bus stop, and they’ve moved the bin closer to where the guy is handing out flyers. So this morning when I took his flyer, he saw me putting it directly into the bin as there weren’t a lot of people around. I really didn’t think he’d care. He was just doing his job after all. But then I heard a noise behind me and saw him swearing at me, and basically giving me the finger!

I admit, in all this time I’ve never actually stopped to read any of his flyers to see what they were about. They are usually bland, photocopied pieces of colored paper with a lot of Chinese characters on it. I just assumed they were promoting a local restaurant or the likes. I honestly thought I was doing him a favour by taking a flyer!

But this experience has me questioning, what is the correct etiquette for flyer distribution? If I’m not interested in the content, is it kinder for me to politely decline with a smile and walk away, or take one anyway and then throw it away?

I was in London, on one of my first business trips. The March weather was unseasonably beautiful; the sky was clear blue and the air was cool and crisp. Still freezing cold by Hong Kong standards, but we were well insulated; my boss in his smart dove grey cashmere coat, and me in my awkward beige puffer, which stops mid-thigh, not quite covering my dress underneath (cutting me in all the wrong places, but I was too cold to care). We had time in between meetings, and so my boss and I decided to walk from Piccadilly to our next meeting in Kensington. We thought it would be scenic to go along Hyde Park and through Knightsbridge, the crème de la crème of London, where Harrods is.

As we walked by Wellington Arch, which marks the beginning of Knightsbridge, a middle eastern man holding a map asked us for directions to the British Museum. Being the nice people that we were, we stopped and pointed it out to him on the map. Just as we were about to part ways, we were stopped by another man dressed in jeans (also middle eastern looking!), claiming to be an undercover cop.

“Are you exchanging money?” he asked.

We frantically shook our heads, no.

He then waved his his badge at us, and asked to see all our identifications and money. Being the good law abiding Chinese citizens that we were, one by one we dutifully handed over our passports and money to be inspected. We watched as he checked our passports, counted our cash and handed everything back to us. Once he had checked all three of us, he thanked us and told us to be careful next time.

We went on our way, feeling uneasy. What just happened? Were we being followed? We immediately quickened our pace and only stopped when we saw uniformed cops standing ahead of us, and rushed to recount our story. The uniformed cop did not look surprised, and asked us if we’d lost anything. We said no. So he just told us to be careful next time, and that he could not help us any further as he was on duty. It was only then that we noticed that we were standing right outside the Libyan embassy. Considering that Libya was in the midst of a civil war at that time, we took that as a bad omen and hopped onto the relative safety of a cab, unnerved.

It was only later that evening when my boss counted his money, that he realized that a few hundred euros were missing. Even though we were watching like a hawk, somehow the “cop” had managed to magically whisk away hundreds of euros without us knowing. It appeared that we were indeed robbed after all. Right in the backyard of Buckingham Palace, where London’s most expensive real estate is supposed to be.

As we processed this information, we tried to look on the bright side. Perhaps we did the right thing given the situation. Even if we had known it was a con from the start, it would have done us no good to put up a fight anyway. They could have held us at gun point! At least now, we were unharmed, if a little shaken. Actually a whole lot shaken. I shudder to imagine what could have happened, and swore never to stop for anyone ever again.

SPOILERS ALERT**********

Neither protagonists (Nick and Amy) were relate-able nor remotely like-able. And literally nothing happened in the first half of the book. It was a credit to the writer that people managed to get through the first half given how slow the plot went.

Back to Amazon to look for a new book…..

So when my boss asked me the other day if he can check out my new Kindle while I was reading Gone Girl over lunch, I unhesitatingly and very excitedly showed him all the awesome features. Unfortunately, I so happened to be reading the part where she gushes about how great her husband is, and as I showed my boss how fast the pages flipped…. we couldn’t help but notice the words “big penis” literally jumping out of the pages at us!!! It was right there, smacked in the middle of the page, at the end of a paragraph, further enhanced by the very sharp paperwhite feature of the new Kindle.

My boss raised an eyebrow and asked me what I was reading. I blushed, and tried to explain that I was reading Gone Girl, and that it is on top of the NYTimes Bestseller List. He smirked and pointed out that so was Fifty Shades of Gray………. I blushed even harder trying to defend myself, spluttering that “it is a thriller, a completely different genre………” He gave me a disbelieving look and went back to work.

As most middle class Hong Kong families did back in the 80s in fear of the great 97 handover, my family moved to Canada when I was about three years old to sit out our four year immigration “prison sentence.” While my mother and I spent much of this time in domestic bliss in Toronto, I imagined my father in a suit, floating around in space when he was not with us. In reality, he was frequently flying between Canada and Hong Kong so he can get his passport and work at the same time. Such a person was commonly known back in the days as an astronaut.

In that sense, I guess my mother and I were kind of astronauts as well. We flew back and forth a lot too. My mother grew up surrounded by a large and boisterous family in Hong Kong, and could not stand the cold and radio silence of Toronto. She barely spoke English or knew anyone there at the time, so there really was only so much she could do. There were only so much pretend telephone conversations and meals (real and make belief) one can have with a chatty three year old; and only so much one can shop at Eaton and “Hope Renview” (it was only much later that I found out that my mother’s favourite store was actually Holt Renfrew).

Kindergarten was only a distant afterthought. I did not have time for it, and I hated it. I cried so much my first day, my mother, the softie that she is, gave in and let me stayed home afterwards. The school principal called a few days later to find out where I went.

While others remember stealing kisses from the girl on the bus, I remember playing the drums by myself next to the window, waiting for my mother to show up. Even at such a precocious age, when children still played indiscriminately, I failed to connect with anyone. Later this would lead to years of self-doubt and confidence issues. But at that moment, I just spaced out, anxiously waiting for my mother to come pick me up.

****************

My mother got pregnant when I was about three, and because her baby bump was very ’round’ at the time, she was convinced that it was a girl. So for many months before the baby was born, I would cuddle next to my mother in the family living room next to the kitchen, where the white marble fireplace which we never used was. I’d gently put my cheeks on her stomach and talked to “Hoi Fa” (meaning “ocean flower” in Chinese – my chosen name for her) in three year old gibberish, while she watched TV. After so many years by myself (there were no such things as play groups back then), I couldn’t wait to have a REAL LIVE baby sister to play with. I was going to be the best-est elder sister ever. We were going to do everything together in matching red outfits and pig tails!

Before my mother had a chance to get a proper scan to confirm her conviction however, her water broke on the eve of October 30, 1990 (3 months early!). After over 24 hours of labor having me, she wasn’t going to rush to the hospital just to wait and have oily hair for the rest of the week (in Chinese culture, women are not supposed to wash their hair immediately after giving birth). She very calmly finished making dinner for me, and washed her super curly shoulder length hair before heading to the hospital. My brother was born shortly after by cesarean. When I found out, I ran up our long curving staircase to my room, jumped onto my bed and promptly burst into tears. Despite my aunt Anita and uncle Peter’s best efforts, I was heartbroken. My baby sister had turned into an icky boy. I fell asleep staring mournfully at my Mickey Mouse lampshade.

Needless to say, the arrival of my brother was marred with disappointment and nagging feelings, which I eventually identified as jealousy. It wasn’t so bad at first. My mother came back a few days later and the three of us went out for dim sum as usual. Since my brother was born premature, he had to stay for further observation at the hospital, inside a small plastic box. My mother marveled at the highly professional (and convenient) service of hospitals in Canada. There were round the clock nurses and and at least three pediatricians looking after my baby brother – all for a fraction of the cost of my uncomplicated birthing in Chicago (a point which my father marveled at). My mother had absolutely nothing to worry about. Instead of staying up all day and night feeding and changing diapers, she was relaxing and enjoying herself with a nice cup of tea. After a week though, the hospital called asking my parents where they were, and why they had not come to visit at all. They thought that my parents had abandoned their newborn. I wish! Having just immigrated to Canada less than a year ago from Hong Kong, their English vocabulary had just not extended to “visitation” yet.

When I envisioned the arrival of my new sibling, my three year old mind did not factor in the fact that it would take my parent’s attention away from me. Indeed, I thought there would actually be one more person in my orbit to circle around me. Parents nowadays try to ease the entry of a second child into a household, by presenting the first child with gifts from their new sibling to generate good will. But my mother is fifth of seven children and my father is second of three. They have absolutely no concept of what an unwelcome intrusion a sibling is to a single child. I was suddenly thrown out of my limelight, and I didn’t like it at all.

It was dark days for me after that. I don’t remember much, but from what I’ve gathered in home videos, it was cringe worthy. Every time I see those videos, my heart goes out to that little girl. One in particular featured my brother lying crinkly and naked in a small tub full of water in the shower, while my mother kneel next to him with one hand behind his neck and the other giving him a bath. My father stood next to them, holding his huge rectangular video camera over his shoulder. And in the background, you can hear the voice of a little girl, repeatedly going “daddy daddy, look at me!” Then the camera shakes a bit as my father glances back and reproaches the little girl, telling her to be quiet. I stop watching after that, as embarrassment and rejection overcomes me all over again.  I was supposed to be the focal point of my father’s big black box. I am camera shy now, but back then I was a natural. I would just look straight at the lens and talk non stop, showing my invisible audience a photo album or just go about cooking in my toy kitchen, while my mother cooked in the real kitchen next door. My  brother was just lying in a tub!

Eventually I got over the fact that I have a brother instead of a sister (I even started to appreciate that I never have to share my clothes). I learnt to share the limelight, and appreciate the distraction. But that is a story for another time.

Recently however, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last new book I read. I read. But mostly old favourites that I can almost recite. It is like visiting old friends; familiar, warm and fuzzy. None of the excitement of meeting new characters and getting carried away on a new adventure, not know what will happen next however. So one of my new years resolution this year, is to read a new book every month. It is March now, and I’m actually somewhat ahead! Here’s my booklist so far:

• This is how you lose her, Junot Díaz: I read this during my vacation to Iceland and Paris in January, and I finished it on the plane ride back despite my dying Kindle 2. It is a series of short stories that focuses on the antagonist, Yunior’s girlfriends, expanding to stories including his brother’s girlfriends and his childhood. The crass Dominican immigrant English lingo splattered with Spanish, was a culture shock for me, but I thought it brought out the character and the background of the stories really well. After reading some reviews, the focus is apparently Yunior’s addiction to cheating on his girlfriends. But what I took away from it, was that it is actually a story about his brother, and how that shaped him as a character.
• Kafka on the Shore, Huraki Murakami: I read this while I was attending my friend’s wedding in Bali and finished it over lunch time at work. I couldn’t put it down! The plot itself is actually rather slow and somewhat confusing (it goes back and forth between the stories of two characters), but I think the magic comes in the writing and all the metaphors and hidden meaning behind the story. A whole course can be held trying to decipher the meaning of the book. I especially loved Nakata’s character, who was simple, humble and happy. This is my first Murakami book, and initially I thought he was perhaps raised abroad and spoke fluent English, because the book was written so beautifully that it can only be the original text. But then my friend told me that it was actually a translation. Philip Gabriel is one heck of a translator!
• Casual Vacancy, JK Rowling: I read this on and off since mid-February, and finally finished it mid-March. It is a completely different genre from Harry Potter. It was basically about how the people of small town Pagford coped with the death of one of their council members, and the impending internal politics. To be honest, the story plot was not that compelling at all. But Rowling does keep you turning the pages. The characters are very real and relate-able  and does a good contrast between characters of different social classes. I did feel compassion and sympathy for Krystal, and did wonder what would’ve happened if Barry Fairweather had not died at the beginning of the book.

Next on my reading list: Gone girl by Gillian Flynn. I figured I’d go for a thriller this month!

Other titles I’m considering include Wind up Bird Chronicle by Huraki Murakami (I just loved Kafka!), The Things they Carried by Tim O’Brien (still looking for this book) and The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult (I still have not read a book by her yet!). What was the last good book that you read? I’d love some suggestions!