What happens if I commit to buying some books, feeling so self-satisfied about supporting local bookstore Uncle Hugo's? Of course. I must then stumble on cache upon cache of reviews of Books I Must Read Right Now.
A bio of Essex Hemphill and Michael Callen by Martin Duberman. Suddenly a million decent-sounding lesbian novels and poetry books. A reprint of Cheryl Clarke. A new Achy Obejas book, and it's poetry. A biography of a founder of the Lesbian Avengers. Oh, man... THIS. A bio of Donna Minkowitz that references Tolkein. A bio of Valerie Solanas that takes her seriously! Bio, bio, bio. A new novel by Michael Nava!! A ton of stuff I can't begin to link to or my wrist will fall off as it has been threatening to do... I feel like I made this post before, and in fact I did, about sff.
What is a butch to do but spend more time at work, racking up overtime, leaving less time to actually read these books. Isn't it enough that I just started Hild, which weighs more than my cat, with five other books and a Finnish language CD set also in process? Does it pay to fervently wish for a renaissance of lgbtaiqyaya... quiltbasgsoundstoomuchlikecarpetbaggerwhichwasgoodbutbadtooandanywayit'snotknownoutsidesffniches lit'r'ture? Of course not. We can't actually afford to need new books, much as we crave them. But nothing will stop us from devouring them, as soon as possible, nonetheless. Nonesuch. Nevermore. Quack. Quack. Duck, Duck... Gray Duck! Waaaaaaahhhh!!!!
Yes. It is definitely spring. At least there are (for now) free thrills, like Autostraddle... And Wiscon, which May showers usually bring.
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Duck duck goose... don't be going Minnesotan on me now.
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