It is June 30, and thank God I can escape from the self-imposed horrors of NaBloPoMo. Which somehow is forcing me to take a moment to think about how posting every freaking day worked out, what it is I really mean to say, and whether there is any point at all in doing all this (I'll try to rein it in).
Writing every day is, of course, the real secret to writing, just as the only cure for writer's block is…writing. And there's a lot I'm glad I wrote about that it would have taken me longer to get to, like more We Recommends than usual (including ones for Chestnut and Diana), and coming up with a new feature which is probably going to get called something like Random Book of the Month. But writing every day is not the same as publishing every day, and let me apologize here for those rambling days when I just had to post something—and did.
We're getting out of town tomorrow and heading for the woods, and posting will be sidelined, for the moment. (NaNoPoYoBloMo? National Not Posting on Your Blog Month?) But thank you to all of you who stayed with me and read all this stuff. And as a parting June gift, here: a book you can read, or your kid (maybe, if they're that type of kid) will want to read. It's sweet and silly and heartfelt and altogether fun, with romance and yearning and dawning self-awareness and truckloads of British eccentricity:
Enjoy! See you in July!