by Erin Rose Joan Didion is a master of words. Her work, her career, her ease with language is something that both inspires and frightens me. She has written in nearly every genre under the sun but I am particularly in love with her nonfiction work. I devoured the essay collection, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and then began reading nearly everything she’d ever crafted. During this past summer I encountered a particular amount of loss. My mother says people always die in threes. It’s the laws of the universe. I found myself without the proper language to discuss the grief. I am hardly ever without the proper language for anything. It is the one way I know I can communicate with the world and myself. My words are my life. One afternoon I found on the bookshelf in my sisters’ home a copy of, The Year of Magical Thinking. It was as if someone had planted it there for me. I found what I didn’t even know I was looking for.
by Ruby Bisson I spent a lot of my childhood long past my bedtime curled up in a soft bed, hidden under warm dolphin-print covers, a small torch in my mouth to help me see my book. Most likely it was Roald Dahl’s Matilda (which I read at least 14 times) or the adventures of Julian, Dick, Anne, George and little Timmy in Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series. Dad would come creeping down the hall and I would be so engrossed in my book that I wouldn’t hear him approaching. He’d peak into my room and linger there for a while waiting for me to feel his presence at the end of my bed. I’d fold my page and click off my torch, sometimes he’d take the book from me so I couldn’t sneak a second read. It was a struggle for my parents to tear me away from the characters I had fallen in love with. But this was before the age of wifi and mobile phones.
by Amy Galea I had reached the point recently, where I’d gorged myself silly on Netflix dramas, 90’s Rom Coms and re- watching episodes of GIRLS, and was hit with the fat realisation that I hadn’t read a novel for personal enjoyment, in many months.