The wonderful Mary Stewart has passed away. I've written about her previously here and here, but I just wanted to say that I'm . . . I'm so sad. The first line of the first Stewart book I read (which happened to be her very first book as well) reads, "The whole affair began so very quietly." I spent the summer after my freshman year of college devouring anything of hers I could get my hands on. One year, for my birthday, my husband tracked down beautiful copies of every one of her books. I went into my library last night and ran a finger along their beloved spines. And as I type this now I'm stepping off the plane in Paris with Linda, navigating the twisted streets of Provence with Charity, climbing the sun-dried ruins of Delphi with Camilla, and I think—my, what a legacy.
I haven't wanted to talk about this. With anyone. But I think I probably need to. That like Georgina, I need to use my words to break the curse. I think that like Sam, I need to believe in my cure. So I'm going to talk about it here, and maybe you can help. Since pandemic type things got real in my neck of the woods, I haven't been able to read. I haven't been able to reread . This has (and I am not exaggerating) never happened to me before in my life. I know it happens frequently to most everyone. And I have certainly always been a mood reader. It's not in any way uncommon for me to drift from book to book, from shelf to shelf in my library, until I land upon the right thing. But that drifting tends to occur over the course of a few hours. Not ever does it occur over the course of a few days or, God forbid, weeks. I feel like I'm losing my mind. And, yes, I am fully aware of where this problem likely rates on the triviality scale in the current scheme of