Mea maxima culpa, or, My baddest bad.

Sooo, big news, I am still the proud owner of this ridiculous little corner of bookish weirdness – surprise, surprise! But I will be honest, between a pregnancy, the baby that resulted from that pregnancy, a pandemic, a public facing job, and the million little things that make up a life, I actually kind of forgot about this poor little weirdo. But fear not, I have returned, and, in the great tradition of this blog, I am making it one of my 2022 resolutions to write semi-regularly here.

Let’s see how that goes.

Jk, jk.

But during my shameful abandonment of this blog, I have, at least, continued reading. I think the most accurate measurement of my reading list would have to be… a metric fuck-ton. Or is it fuckton? In any case, it was a lot. My goal for this year was 127 books, but, terrified that having a baby would slow down my reading, I crammed in as many books as I could before my due date. And then the littlest bookworm made her debut, and it turns out I actually have more time to read than I did when I was working? Because there’s not much else to do while you’re feeding a milk-drunk baby than scroll through your phone, and better an ebook than social media. So, as of 12:01 am, December 31st, I am sitting pretty at 165 books – 39 books over my goal.

I could do a top 10 or a top 5, or something thoughtful reflection exploring the ways that my reading changed during a pandemic, during pregnancy, during motherhood, and maybe I will, eventually, but right now, I want to just say, thank God for books. Thank God for stories. Thank God for the writers who write them, the readers who read them, and for weird little blogs that let weird little nerds ramble on about their favourite rearrangements of those 26 miraculous letters that save our lives over and over, every goddamn day. Amen.

Goodbye, dear 2021 – you were truly something. And hello, new 2022 – may you be filled with stories.

– xo, R


You didn’t think I would make it through this post without this, did you?


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