I've been storming through books by the at least half-dozens, I tell you, but I haven't really been getting along with Blogger and now, like any bad blog-lady, I've got catching up to do. I may do something rash like grab my booklog and give you little two-sentence reviews of everything I've read in the last two months, but I'm not sure.

I so feel like I've been missing out on things by not being able to get to this little box. But the Booker shortlist has been announced, and now I REALLY feel behind. I've been meaning to get my hands on that Ishiguru, and I think I've read Banville and liked him ... but I haven't been able to bring myself to get near White Teeth and thus the Smith has little appeal, and while I hear I'm supposed to like Julian Barnes or something, I've never read him.

No McEwan, Rushdie or Coetzee, eh? Is Ali Smith male or female?

On a totally different note, I have a writer-crush on Tom Perotta. I hid out in my room reading Little Children last night while my roommates suffered through Anger Management. I'm supposed to be working, and all I want to do is read.