so. i tried to be all smarty pants and read doris lessing’s new book, the cleft. but i just couldn’t do it. i wanted something warm and fuzzy. i wanted something that would help me forget the waft of changing diapers and the pile of dishes with crusted on lasagna. i charged my through to about page 50–it’s an interesting premise. lessing rewrites genesis, with women first. but, i couldn’t stomach the brutality.

so i picked up winter wheat, but couldn’t get my teeth into it. (if you ask me, there’s only one gil, and we all know where to find him.) i might try again later, but the narration in this one is so strange. ellen, the protagonist, tells most of the story as an essay assignment for a college professor. it’s still languishing on my nightstand.

and then, [then!], i started in on another shannon hale. what delight. dashti, the mongolian narrator, has more ways to use the word “yak” in ordinary conversation than anyone i know. i couldn’t put this down. i devoured it in a matter of days. (two of them to be exact.) and would have finished it in one if i didn’t have a kid who seems to be needing things all of the time.

it’s inventive, it’s lyric, it’s suspenseful, it’s perfect.