I never write about books anymore. Only two posts in all of 2018 were tagged "Books", and only one of those was really a post about a book ("perhaps i need to go out tonight", about Heather Havrilesky's What If This Were Enough?) I read books all the time, I'm usually in the middle of one or more. Open right now: Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women's Anger by Rebecca Traister. Unopened right now, meaning I have them but haven't started them: a memoir by Jorma Kaukonen, a biography of Francis Marion, and Joan Didion's White Album, which I have read before.
But here are some of the ones I've read since Havrilesky's book, all of them deserving of a post of their own:
- The Big Fella: Babe Ruth and the World He Created by Jane Leavy
- Bing Crosby: Swinging on a Star: The War Years, 1940-1946 by Gary Giddins
- I Might Regret This: Essays, Drawings, Vulnerabilities, and Other Stuff by Abbi Jacobson
- Is It Still Good to Ya?: Fifty Years of Rock Criticism, 1967-2017 by Robert Christgau
- Seduction: Sex, Lies, and Stardom in Howard Hughes's Hollywood by Karina Longworth
- Just a Shot Away: Peace. Love, and Tragedy with the Rolling Stones at Altamont by Saul Austerlitz
Perhaps I need to write about these in the aftermath of the reading, where they are still fresh in my mind. Because right now, Traister's book is the only fresh one. In my mind.
So I'll write about it when I finish it. According to my Kindle, I'm 59% of my way through it.