Autumn is in the air. At last.
Not that this summer was terrible, as far as summers go, but it will still summer. Hot, humid, summer.
The summer months and I don’t get along, so when the temperatures start dropping into the 50s at night, pumpkin spice everything returns to the stores, and the trendy girls put their scarves on again, I do a mental happy dance. It means my sluggish mind wakes back up from its humidity-induced torpor and I can go back outside without melting.
Really, I should move to Scandinavia. Or Minnesota, or some other northern place. I can do cold. Cold’s not a problem. You can gets coats and scarves and hats to deal with cold. When it’s hot, there is only so much clothing you can peel off before they arrest you.
I counted the number of books I’ve read this year. I’m up to twenty-eight, which is a lot more than the the average American reads (somewhere around 12), but far fewer than what I read last year, while I was doing the 100 book challenge. But then, I did move and get hit with a sort of reading malaise in May, where I just couldn’t find anything that seemed compelling. That has since worn off with, of all things, crime novels set in the Victorian era. I finished up Caleb Carr’s The Alienist a few days ago and I’m about a third of the way through Lindsay Fay’s The Gods of Gotham. I also read Gregory Harris’s novel, The Arnifour Affair, which wasn’t the most historically accurate book I’ve ever read, but it was fun, and sometimes that’s all you need out of a book.