How could I have forgotten
what it's like to read Bradbury? Every time I pick something of his up (which is far too infrequently) it truly is like coming home. It's familiar and comforting and absorbing and interesting and so many other things. Why do I forget this? Especially when I'm on a quest for something good to read? I'm on a bit of a knitting break (next HPKCHC term doesn't' start until May) and have been searching for just the right thing to read. Just finished Wicked Lovely by Melissa Marr (it's ok, not great. Much preferred Maggie Steifvater). Usually when I get this kind of searching feeling for books I end up re-reading HP but that's not where I want to go yet. So I grabbed a Bradbury book from the library. Not going to pretend I've read everything of his. Not going to say I've absolutely loved everything that I have read. But overall, there's nothing like reading Bradbury.