1. Storyteller, by Kate Wilhelm: to my right, near my elbow. I'm wishing I'd reread it before submitting my application to Clarion. I'm worried I didn't make it absolutely clear how much I need me some writing instruction right now -- I'm all atmosphere and no plot these days.
2. Getting Started as a Freelance Writer, by Robert W. Bly: On the floor by the bed. I should pick that up and get crackn'. Yup.
3. The Testament of Gideon Mackm by James Robertson: On the floor, too, where I dropped it after finishing it two nights go. That's a damn good book, y'all. (No pun intended. It's about the devil).
4. Achilles, by Elizabeth Cook: A little further along the floor, having slid off the Testament of Gideon Mack to make a break for the bookshelf. Not so fast, Achilles. I ain't through with you.
5. Freddy and Fredericka, by Mark Helpern: On my nightstand. I wondered where that had gotten to. My mother called me in the middle of the night two weeks ago, adamant that I should go out and buy this book at my earliest convenience. I meant to read it after my surgery, but confused myself by putting it in a spot where a sane person might keep books she intended to read in bed. I don't know what I was thinking.
6. Salome, by Oscar Wilde: under Freddy and Frederika. Well, I hope they got along ok.
7. Proust and the Squidby Maryanne Wolf. On the nightstand, too. There are at least four books in our house right now that namecheck Proust in the title. When did Proust become shorthand, and what is he shorthand for?
8. The Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just One, by Margaret Lobenstein: On the nightstand, wedged under the lamp. I should really pick that up, already.
9. A two-year-old copy of Tin House: that's a great magazine, but I wish I could find the uncanny women issue.