I’ve always been a fangirl. For as long as I can remember I’ve had a crush on one celebrity or another. The timeline goes something like this:

Top L-R: Davy Jones, Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy

Bottom L-R: Robby Benson, Richard Gere and Ryan Gosling

Edited to add David Boreanaz!

There were probably a few other crushes in there, Jan Michael Vincent in the 70s, John Travolta circa Grease, Brad Pitt a la Legends of the Fall, Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul (Starsky and Hutch) on alternating weeks. You get the picture, right?

I haven’t really crushed too hard on too many writers though, and considering my lifelong obsession with reading and books, you’d think I’d have a list of writers I’ve admired. And I do – an endless list of writers who have moved me, made me laugh and cry, ponder life’s big and little questions. But I never posted their picture on my bedroom wall.

So, I’m shallow.

I did write a fan letter to Carolyn Slaughter back in the 1980s, though. I found a book by her called The Banquet in a little second-hand bookstore in Hamilton, Ontario. It told the story of an architect called Harold and a Marks and Spencer shopgirl called Blossom. I found the novel absolutely riveting and the ending was both shocking and perfect. I recommended that book like crazy and went on a hunt to find more of Slaughter’s work. My favourite Slaughter novel is called Relations (also called The Story of the Weasel). That novel  was profoundly moving and cemented my love for Slaughter and her books, most of which I have now finished or are on my tbr shelf.

I don’t know what  compelled me to write the letter to Ms. Slaughter. God only knows what I said given that I was in my mid 20s at the time and had delusions of perhaps one day becoming a novelist. No matter, Ms. Slaughter not only responded, she  kindly hand wrote me two and a half pages about her work and offered some sound advice. I cherish that letter.

It wasn’t until many years later when I began writing fanfiction and receiving (mostly) positive feedback from people who read it that I realized how much Ms. Slaughter must have appreciated hearing from me – not because I had anything profound to say, but because by its very nature writing is a lonely occupation. Even ten years ago, the only way you might ever have the opportunity to tell a writer how much their book meant to you was to send them some snail mail. Or perhaps, attend a reading – if you were lucky enough to live somewhere that hosted them. Social media has changed all that. Now it’s possible to find them on Twitter and follow the minutiae of their every day lives. I was actually able to tweet Patrick Ness and tell him how much I enjoyed his novel The Knife of Never Letting Go. And I enjoyed his tweeted reply.

The New York Times recently printed an interesting article called Why Authors Tweet. Not everyone agrees about how much interaction should exist between writers and their audience, but I think it’s cool to be able to connect with the people who create the worlds and characters we fall in love with.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop swooning over Ryan Gosling; it just means that, when I can, I’m going to write notes to the authors who mean so much to me.

I was fortunate enough to be back in NYC over the Christmas holidays and even more fortunate to be able to spend a little time in The Strand.  The Strand has been around for over 80 years and it’s a booklovers dream-store. It’s home to new and used books of every genre and it’s so much fun to work your way up and down the narrow aisles looking for hard-to-find titles.  I was very excited to be able to take one of the other teachers, also a book-lover, to this iconic store.

We didn’t have very much time – we were trying to cram in as much of NYC as we could and we had a handful of students with us who were desperate to get to Chinatown – and my companion remarked that our short visit was a bit of a tease. I couldn’t agree more. The Strand is a place to visit when you have time in one hand and a big cup of tea in the other.

Here’s a little video tour of the store from their website

I had a small book list with me and in twenty minutes I managed to find four titles I’ve been looking for, plus one book I didn’t even know existed. Here’s a picture of my purchases.

Can’t wait to go back!

Love her or hate her, Oprah is a reader and she has influenced the reading tastes of thousands – hundreds of thousands even – of women (and probably men). In this article from  ‘O’ her editors offer some tips to keep your book club fresh and vibrant.

My book club has been hard at it for over a decade, with many of the same members. I love the ladies in my book club; they’re  feisty, smart and supportive. When we started the group, my son was an infant (and he’s now 12) and our monthly meetings were an opportunity to have adult conversation and a glass of wine. We’ve seen each other through many of life’s trials, drank many glasses of wine and read a lot of terrific books. I cherish my time with them.

Last year, I put together some of my thoughts about how to keep a book club ticking along. Here’s what I had to say.

I am totally in love with Ryan Gosling. I think he’s an amazing actor and, yeah, okay – he’s also easy on the eyes. Now I have even more reason to love him – he’s a book lover. Don’t believe me? Check this out!

Here’s a little sample.

Okay – maybe he’s not a book lover – but he’s still easy on the eyes!

For anyone who loves an afternoon in a bookstore, One Book on the Shelf, has a terrific project on the go. She intends on visiting every bookstore in London. Follow her progress here.

I actually had one of my most perfect bookstore experiences ever while living in Birmingham, England. I was teaching high school in the Midlands, and my department head gave me 200 pounds to buy books. He sent me with our school’s librarian to  Peter’s Books  for an entire morning. As if that wasn’t enough – while I was perusing the hundreds and hundreds of books on offer, a woman came up and asked me if I would like a cup of tea. Um. Yes, please. Five minutes later, I was holding a massive mug of steaming hot tea *and* poring over the titles. Bliss.

Speaking of wonderful bookstores, I have always been a huge fan of The Strand in NYC. Sadly when my kids and I visited New York in the summer, I was only allowed a quick walk through – not because my kids are anti-books, thankfully they’re both voracious readers- because as my daughter put it “Mom, you have too many books and we don’t have any room in our luggage for more!”

I’d love to hear about your favourite bookstore experiences.

I have a really hard time giving away books – the exception being books I really didn’t like (because if I wouldn’t recommend them, why would I keep them?) and books that I wouldn’t re-read (one shot mysteries). But there is the whole problem of what to do when you run out of room.

I have a floor to ceiling built in, compliments of my brother, Tom. He made it for me last year – the first time he’s ever built anything like  it – and I love it. I could barely wait for the paint to dry so I could start alphabetizing all my books and I spent many evenings after the books were shelved sitting in the armchair across the living room, sighing contentedly.

But that wasn’t enough. I needed more shelves, so instead of buying a sofa table which would only collect clutter, I asked him to build me a book shelf that would do double duty as a sofa table. it is the perfect piece of furniture – functional and pretty, too. I don’t think there’s anything my brother can’t do!

I have a great IKEA bookshelf in my bedroom which is reserved for my tbr books. I know – I have a teensy addiction to book buying and I know that eventually I am going to run out of room.I have always dreamed about having a library – a room devoted to books; a quiet, comfortable place to read and dream and write. Someday, maybe.

No surprise: I love bookshelves. I think they’re an essential piece of furniture. I love to see what’s on other people’s shelves. I love for visitors to see what’s on mine. It’s one of the main reasons I can’t ever see me buying an e-reader, although I do understand their appeal.  Book shelves are art and apparently I am not alone. Check out the shelves at Bookshelf Porn.

I am gratified to know that I am not alone.

I know they’re  on the other side of the world, but why not celebrate Australia’s  National Year of Reading 2012  by reading books by Australians  or books set down under. If you need help getting started,  Kimbofo of Reading Matters is hosting an Australian Book Month.

I’ve read a few books by Australians myself and can highly recommend Lloyd Jones’ Mister Pip,  and Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief.

For the past few years over at Chapters Indigo, where I moderate a group called 50 Books in [insert year], I’ve compiled a list of my favourite books. This year is no exception. Here are my favourite books of 2011.

The Book of Lost Things – John Connolly  

Absolutely my favourite book of the year. The writing was beautiful. David broke my heart.

Once upon a time—for that is how all stories should begin—there was a boy who lost his mother.

He had, in truth, been losing her for a very long time. The disease that was killing her was a creeping, cowardly thing, a sickness that ate away at her from the inside, slowly consuming the light within, so that her eyes grew a little less bright with each passing day and her skin a little more pale.

And as she was stolen away from him, piece by piece, the boy became more and more afraid of finally losing her entirely. He wanted her to stay. He had no brothers and no sisters, and while he loved his father it would be true to say that he loved his mother more. He could not bear to think of a life without her.

The Knife of Never Letting Go – Patrick Ness

About 30 pages in this book had me by the throat and would not let me go. I actually had to force myself to s-l-o-w down while reading it. SO GOOD!

The first thing you find out when yer dog learns to talk is that dogs don’t got nothing  much to say.

Need a poo, Todd.

Shut up, Manchee.

Poo. Poo, Todd.

I said shut it.

Quiver – Holly Luhning

A creepy, crawly thriller by Canadian author Holly Luhning that weaves the story of a young forensic psychologist with the tale of 16th century countess Elizabeth Bathory, famous for torturing young girls and bathing in their blood.

She was easy to spot.

Her skin was almost blue-white. As usual, at the corner she said goodbye to the other girls; he saw her part from the heads of pink hair, tight black curls, a blonde pixie cut. Watched her follow a narrow asphalt footpath that led around the corner to a pedestrian tunnel under the busy motorway.

He’d been in the tunnel, walked its sixty feet back and forth.He had done this most mornings this week, on his way to the office. No one noticed him. He was just a man wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, going to work. When a lorry passed on the road above, the caged fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling buzzed louder. Sometimes cyclists whizzed towards him through the tunnel, but they always stayed on their side of the yellow line painted down the centre of the path. Each day before he left the tunnel, he stopped and looked at the yellow paint, imagined it blotted by a puddle of blood, a small broken body stretched across its line.

One Day – David Nicholls

Dexter and Emma share one night together and their lives are forever shaped by it. I loved every single second of this book.

Friday 15TH July 1988
Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh

‘I suppose the important thing is to make some sort of difference,’ she said. ‘You know, actually change something.’

‘What, like “change the world”, you mean?’

‘Not the whole entire world. Just the little bit around you.’

They lay in silence for a moment, bodies curled around each other in the single bed, then both began to laugh in low, pre-dawn voices. ‘Can’t believe I just said that,’ she groaned. ‘Sounds a bit corny, doesn’t it?’

The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins

Collins has created a chilling post-apocalyptic world and peopled it with characters it’s impossible not to care about. Then – she makes them expendable. Teens love this one…but so do I.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.  She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named.  My mother was very beautiful once too. Or so they tell me.

The Housekeeper – Melanie Wallace

This was a strangely unsettling book about a girl who tried to outrun her past, only to be caught up in complex relationships she knows nothing about. It is  a stark, grim page-turner…beautifully written.

The first time Jamie saw the boy, he was tied to a tree. She was in no way prepared for the sight, of him wrapped tight in old clothesline haphazardly wound and knotted, the rope soiled and stained where it had at some previous time curled on pulleys and grimed. He was remarkably still but for the snot that ran from his nose.

The House of Mirth – Edith Wharton

A book you can sink your teeth into – this is a tale of social class, love and money and it resonates still.

Seldon paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart. It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching a train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close of the Newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions.

Falling Apart in One Piece – Stacy Morrison

Morrison tells the story of her marriage and divorce without rancor. Her prose is straightforward as she navigates herself through the messy aftermath of a ruined marriage and I found the book insightful and, yes, helpful.

I suppose I should start where it all started. Or, more specifically, started ending. The night Chris told me he was done with our marriage.

I can recall exactly what I was doing on the June evening this one-way conversation started: I was standing at the sink in the kitchen area of our one-room first floor, washing a bunch of arugula, my favorite salad green, pushing my hands through the cold water in the salad spinner to shake the dirt loose. I was looking out the window over the sink, marveling at the beautiful backyard of our Brooklyn home: an actual lawn, its bright green grass thick as a carpet; a wood deck; and a pergola with grapevines climbing over it in curlicue abandon. The yard was my favorite thing about our house, a house that we’d bought and moved into just five months before on a freezing-cold January day, when our son, Zack, was just five months old. Stationed in his bouncy seat on the floor in the empty living room, he’d watched with wide eyes as everything we owned was marched through the front door in big cardboard boxes.

The Mercy Killers – Lisa Reardon

Lisa Reardon creates the most amazingly screwed up characters and yet it’s impossible not to fall in love with them. I am a huge fan.

It’s hard to think how different their lives would have been if it weren’t for the mess they got themselves into, if it weren’t for that war, if they hadn’t all been so young and stupid and scared. On a rainy evening in the spring of 1967, Old Jerry hunkers on his bar stool like a liquor-soaked question mark. The topic of conversation is his long-awaited suicide.

The bartender brings him a shot of Stoli. “From Olivia,” he says, “A little early happy birthday for you.” Old Jerry gives Olivia a nod and a wave across the bar. She waves back. Almost sets her chiffon hair scarf on fire with her cigarette. Old Jerry adds the shot to the other two her has got lined up.

I Think I Love You – Allison Pearson

This book was tremendous fun to read because I WAS THAT GIRL! That crazy pucca shell wearing, feathered hair, singing into a hairbrush to Partridge Family records girl! Really enjoyed it.

His favourite colour was brown. Brown was such a sophisticated colour, a quiet and modest sort of colour.  not like purple, which was Donny’s favourite. I wouldn’t be seen dead in purple. Or in a Donny cap. How much would you have to like a boy before you went out wearing a stupid purple peaked cap?

Honest, it’s amazing the things you can know about someone you don’t know. I knew the date of his birth – April 12, 1950. He was a typical Aries but without the Arian’s stubbornness. I knew his height and his weight and his favourite drink, 7Up. I knew the names of his parents and his stepmother, the Broadway musical star. I knew all about his love of horses, which made perfect sense to me because when you’re that famous it must be comforting to be around someone who doesn’t know or care what famous is.