For quite some time now – actually, it’s not as vague as that. Let me start again. Since reading the Lymond Chronicles, I have found it difficult to lose myself in romance the way I used to. I am still absolutely passionate about the genre, it still appeals to me more than most other books I pick up, but even though I don’t remember signing anything, my brain has changed the way it reads.

Dunnett’s kinda dangerous that way.

The only romance writers who’ve really grabbed me in the past year are Meredith Duran (for emotionally ambiguous characters and a unique way with similes), Julie Anne Long (for the same, with an added spike of gorgeous melodrama) and Jennifer Crusie (for the funny, angry women who make me want to be alive). Between them, these ladies aren’t releasing books nearly often enough to quench my reading appetite.

I hate that my habits are changing. Like, I used to love reading my favourites over and over – their familiarity was comforting, they belonged more strongly to me every time. Now I can feel my brain getting bored on a re-read.

I’m happy to branch out into other genres of writing, but nothing seems to stick. I recently started Atonement, of which I have heard such great things. I thought the writing was masterful, and I enjoyed reading it, but I’ve put it down and can’t quite seem to pick it up again.

An Anna without books is an unknown creature to me. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

Fortunately, my tv-show habit is still alive and well.