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It is February. The month I loathe (although August here in Texas is a close second). It is cold and yucky and any charm of winter has entirely disappeared. I find myself retreating to my bed or a cozy chair as often as possible. I pull on the nubbly striped socks I knitted last year and grab a book. All of the things I wanted to read in the autumn have stacked up, pushed aside for holidays and concerts and festivities. Now is the time to read.

I must admit that I am a fan of non-fiction. I don’t want to invest loads of hours and heartache over people who don’t really exist (unless they’re named Gus McCrae). I love biographies and medical histories and pretty much anything that will teach me more about the world I live in. I also have a ginormous soft spot for anything about World War II.  Even as a little girl of ten or eleven I would scour the two libraries in my town looking for books about people who suffered through the war–especially in concentration camps. I don’t know what kind of weirdness makes a young girl love that sort of thing, but I sure did. (I also adored books about people with terminal illnesses. I was a rather morbid child.)

My book club is reading The Boys in The Boat this month and I devoured it last week. It takes place at the very earliest part of the War and I wept when I finished it. As I was bubbling on about how much I loved it to my friend and fellow book club-goer, Anna, she sighed. “I fell asleep a few pages in,” she admitted.  “World War II books are just not my thing.”  What? How can that be? It’s everything that is the best and worst in humanity!  “Now give me a book about Mt. Everest and I can’t put it down,” Anna continued.

Mt. Everest? Really? All I can think when I read about people who climb Mt. Everest (or any mountain, really) is why are you climbing a mountain? Go back to your families where it’s warm and safe!

I’ve thought a lot about my conversation with Anna and the kind of books we’re drawn to. My mind turns to my mother who reads probably one book every day (Ah, to be retired!)  She can’t stand non-fiction but gets thoroughly excited by Amish romances(?!) and Science Fiction, a genre I won’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I remember my grandfather, a man born and raised in New York, who wore a bolo tie held together with a giant chuck of turquoise  and always had a Louis L’Amour next to his armchair.

What is it that draws us to different types of books? Do we want understand our world better or do we want to expand our horizons? What are your favorite types of books?  Are your preferences down-to-Earth, or do you want something that ignites your imagination? Do you stick mostly to books with a female protagonist or are you an equal opportunity reader?  What was your most loved and most hated book last year?


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