The book I'm reading: Jo Graham, Hand of Isis. Okay, so Jo Graham: she is now fairly firmly cemented as That Person Who Writes Books I Think I Won't Want To Read But I Do. If porphyrin hadn't lent me this one, I probably wouldn't have gone, "Oh yeah, and did I like Black Ships all right? I think I did." I mean, it's not a perfect book (notably we have the bit where the unfashionable-looking girl just happens to be our culture's standard for pretty again, great thanks), but I'm enjoying it, it's definitely a thing I want to read, so I will want to read another of hers later too probably.
Books I'm writing: I'm hoping to have enough brain to do this soon, because I have had the kind of fever that means that the right word is not really there. But I am doing some revisions on What We Did, and mostly I am getting all my ducks in a row to write The Spy from Atlantis, which is so far being great fun, and I have hopes that it won't be like the last thing I thought would be fun to write.
The book I love the most. I like books too much to have one of these. This is true every World Book Day. It's true now, too. But if you want to buy me easily in your book, I am very fond of sea serpents.
The last book I received as a gift: Angelica Gorodischer, Kalpa Imperial, to be reviewed later today in book post.
The last book I gave as a gift: Charles C. Mann, 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus, and I'll tell you why. I had meant to get it for markgritter once I found out that he hadn't read it before 1493, and then on February 13 he turned to me and said, "Oh, hey, did you want some chocolate for Valentine's Day?" And I said, "I think the boxes Mother and Dad and Grandma gave us have chocolate in, so why don't you wait and get me March chocolate so we don't have it all in a bunch and I'll get you March 1491," and he said this was a good plan, so now it's March and 1491 was waiting for him when he woke up. Or, as I write this, will be waiting for him when he wakes up.
Where's my chocolate, monkey.
(This is a joke, I don't actually feel up to eating chocolate yet.)
The nearest book: If you don't count the Jo Graham thing, Brian Kennedy's Growing Up Hockey is probably the linearly nearest book to me, or possibly Ted Gioia's The History of Jazz, since they are both shelved on the shelf behind me. I now keep my book piles on the other desk, which is farther than the shelf.
The book I want someone else to please write for me: I have been saying this all week in places where no passing