I have been remiss.

It occurred to me today that I haven't been blogging regularly here for one specific reason: I was waiting for ideas of deep and resonant literary merit to come along for me to write about.

I realize now that that's just silly: I hardly have time to read anymore. Where on earth would I find such ideas? So a new (old) idea: Rather than wait for ideas and content to come to me, I'll simply record what I'm up to. Because some of it's just downright weird.

For instance! I'm growing a mustache.

You heard me.

A mustache.
Like this:

November is now Movember - men all over the ... US? I think... are growing lush mustaches to support one another in their triumph against prostate and testicular cancer. (I said testicular!! OMG.) And they've allowed us women to join with them.

My husband is/was a pro cyclist and cyclocross rider. And from what I understand (I have no statistics) cyclists are cautioned to have their prostates checked earlier than usual.

Anyway, by Movember 30th, I'll be mustachioed and I hope the men in my life will be able to see past the silliness to how deeply I care for them and wish them health and longevity.

(Plug: If you want to support my mustache, go here. It only costs $10, but if I make $20, I can buy two!! The money goes to research. I get the mustache. And my husband. Win-win-win!)

Man reading should be man intensely alive.

"The book should be a ball of light in one's hand."

Labor Day weekend we cease from our labors (or labor at play).  I chose to spend as much time as possible in the delicate weather that was balancing between summer and fall.  Days were spent sunbathing and nights in long-sleeves with hot tea.  And every moment that my attention was not required (by family, or chores, or Puck), I read.

Robin McKinley's newest book, Chalice, was airy and perfect.  I literally could not stand to put it down.  By the end, unconsciously wistful for bees and living earth, I found myself in the backyard, lying in the grass in late sunlight.  And it had a wonderfully triumphant ending.  McKinley has maintained her place as one of my favorite-est fantasy writers yet again!  Other books by her that I'd whole-heartedly recommend: The Hero and the Crown, The Blue Sword, Sunshine.

I'm about ten pages from the end of Spelling Mississippi, by Marnie Woodrow, which I'll devour for lunch.  Woodrow's first novel is clearly that: she struggles a little to find her rhythm, but I found myself willing to read her choppy prose.  She wrote with such a clear idea of her characters, many well-tangled and interesting story lines, and such a powerful sense of place that I really couldn't give up on her.  The book is not ending as I'd predicted, and I feel confident that even in these last ten pages or so, I will continue to be caught off guard.

Others on my shelf (in various stages of reading and enjoyment) include: Oxygen, by Carol Cassella (who could resist the title or the cover?); The Little Bookroom, by Eleanor Farjeon (courtesy of my compatriot bibliophile, Josh); Mirror, Mirror, by Mark Pendergrast (we're all narcissists, but why?); and One More for the Road, by Ray Bradbury (he's just fantastic; period).

In other news, I'm considering joining the Twitter movement.  Thoughts?