The heat of August is upon us, but none of the languor for me. I’m buried in deadlines, my stepdaughter, A., is visiting, and she, Max, and I head to Tampa tomorrow for a quick visit with my father-in-law, who’ll soon be undergoing another cycle of chemo.
A., brilliant as ever, is almost sixteen now, so we’re sharing more books. Yesterday she read Laurie Sandell’s The Impostor’s Daughter in one sitting, just as I did a few weeks ago.
And on Monday night, we went through Shelf Discovery, comparing notes on all the YA novels we both loved, and agreeing that it’s total crap in Little Women when Marmee tells Jo not to let the sun go down on her anger after Jo’s vain, spoiled, and theatrical little sister Amy throws her manuscript on the fire.
I hope to be back here next week. Till then I’m still posting quick links at Twitter. A recent favorite: the fascinating article about Hamilton Cain’s son, who has been paralyzed basically all his short life, and, until the age of six, was presumed unable to communicate, and possibly to understand.
Then someone gave him a felt-tip pen, and he started writing.