I am back from wherever one comes back from, after a hiatus. I devour the written word without a doubt, but writing becomes an issue, even for work. Which is why document what I read makes sense, but I grow tired of my laxities. Let’s hope I can come back to writing regularly.
Now, about reading. I read Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie last month and was completely bowled over by it. How does she do this? Write so effortlessly. And Ifemelu is me, I don’t know how — she is probably the closest to who I am in real life. Before Ifemelu, the only other character I thought was me was Maggie Tulliver from The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot. More on that later. So, after Americanah, I could not get myself to read for a long time. I kept crawling back to Ifemelu and read parts of the book, to feel better about myself.
Then this week, I read a mediocre crime fiction called The Bullet by Mary Louise Kelly and my reading mojo came back to me. It was just beautiful to finish the book, to turn to the last page (albeit, in my kindle), to see that line under the name of the book on my kindle home-screen stretch out to its maximum. I began reading Sleeping on Jupiter by Anuradha Roy earlier today, and haven’t reached a point where I can form concrete opinions about the book, but so far, I am liking it.