The other day I read a book, Vladimir, by Julia May Jonas. It was intriguing and unsettling, but that’s not the point. Its significance is that I finished a novel, something I have struggled to do, aside from holiday binges and for work, in more than two years.
I’ve had these dry patches before, at home with a newborn or unhinged by grief, the words oozing through my eyeballs and jangling my brain. The fix is usually a ripping thriller (or several) before moving on to something more challenging.
