Hello, friends. Are you well? Do your eyes ache a little from all the beautiful books you’ve read this year? Mine sure do. Though not as productive as 2012, I still managed to tuck away 88 books this year. Let’s recap, shall we?
In terms of series, I started off the His Fair Assassin series by Robin LaFevers, in the wonderful Grave Mercy and the even better Dark Triumph. It’s a series about girls who are the daughters of death, members of a convent of assassins. Sometimes they find love, but they also find sisterhood and kill a lot of people on the way. Like, a bunch. I also restarted the Heroes of Olympus series by Rick Riordan (sequel books to the Percy Jackson & the Olympians series; I started the first HoO, The Lost Hero, once upon a time but never finished it until this year), and am now caught up. I also started Gail Carriger’s Finishing School series, a steampunk look at a ladies’ academy secretly training spies. If you’re noticing a trend of “women distracting you with their feminine learning, then busting up your whole day because that learning was all a sham”… well, you’re right.
I read more nonfiction this year than I usually do. There were some comedic essays (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? by Mindy Kaling), some biographies (The Mystery of Lewis Carroll, by Jenny Woolf), and some things that were a combination of both (Hyperbole and a Half, by Allie Brosh (which made me laugh so hard I was shaking on the train)).
There were a delightful amount of books I positively loved this year (cataloged helpfully in the Casey Reads Things’ Must List:
- The Diviners, by Libba Bray (1920’s serial killer mystery with supernatural abilities)
- Code Name Verity, by Elizabeth Wein (girl friendships and some spywork in World War II)
- Seraphina, by Rachel Hartman (murder mystery! with dragons!)
Not to mention the charming and wistful The Year of Shadows, by Claire Legrand (ghosts!); the outright sad The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green (cancer!); the sweetly funny examination of self-expression Fangirl, by Rainbow Rowell (slash fiction!); and the examination on the harsh life of celebrity culture of The Cuckoo’s Calling, by Robert Galbraith (some more murder!).
In retrospect, a shocking amount of the books I read have people dying left and right. I don’t know what that says about me. Or about fiction.
And for what it’s worth, I did make it out of the house once this year for a book signing: meeting the Ylvis boys to have them sign a copy of What Does the Fox Say?, which is charming in spite of the fact that you can never show the illustrations of this children’s book to any actual children without mild psychological scarring.
And because I must, one last shameless plug for the closest thing you’ll get to liveblogging in these parts, the official Casey Reads Things twitter: Casey Read This.
Happy new year and happy reading!