No, I'm not actually reviewing, just...sending you along. To this article from Salon on Mr. James Wood, a figure I really know nothing about, yet somehow recognize. When I read that name, somehow I already know what he is, osmosis having done its job and brain-burrowed that knowledge over time.
Well, the book sounds lovely, and I think I will have to seek it out, for it's something that I need. That's been my problem always in talking about writing. And not just talkin aloud - my internal dialogue stammers too. Maybe this manual of sorts could help me breathe deep and relax my shoulders; it feels so good to really let them fall. And read.
So a preface to my next fiction adventure, perhaps. Now, though, it's non-fiction's turn with my attention. Dreams from My Father has been a calm delight so far, about 61 pages in. I hope to proceed quickly and move on to the manifesto. Hopeful projections from this point portend that The Audacity of Hope will be thoughtfully devastating.