My Year of Binchy – Week 25: No Binchy Allowed

So, for the first time all year, I didn’t read a single word of Binchy this week.

It felt… weird.

But you know what? It was too hot outside to do my normal break-from-reality-reading.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t read this week, though.

I did.

I read what Mickey calls my “weird book.” Here’s what it looks like:

It’s called Daddy’s and it’s written by Lindsay Hunter, an author I’d never heard of before until I found her complete collection when gathering keepsakes from a friend who passed away. I snatched them all up because if there was anything I trusted this friend’s opinion about, it was words.

I didn’t read them for a long time, though. Before I started therapy, I found myself in a pretty big reading drought and couldn’t read ANYTHING, much less new books.

Eventually, I did read all of Lindsay Hunter’s books and they became instant favorites.

They felt fresh in a way writing hadn’t felt to me in a long time. Most of their books are short stories, so they are easy to pick up and read whenever.

Not this particular book, though. That’s why Mickey calls it my “weird book”.

Not cause of the words, but because of how you read them.

It makes for an unsettling reading experience, which really works for this boo.

Cause most of the words are unsettling. And I love them.

I love the way Hunter writes. I immediately understand her characters, their motivations, and their way of being. She doesn’t do this by telling me explicitly, but by simply letting her characters exist.

These characters aren’t great people, but they are wholly themselves.

Her books get me excited to write. Maeve Binchy’s books get me excited to escape.

So, while it’s been too hot to escape, I’ve spent some time savoring Lindsay Hunter’s words.

So that’s where I am this week.

It’s very hot out. Mickey is still working. He does have to work 6 days a week at the moment, so I’m writing this on an alone Saturday morning, awaiting his return this afternoon.

This is my PMS week, which, with the combo of PMDD and peri-menopause – it’s an awful time to live in my brain. I’m just glad that the rest of my nervous system is regulated enough to ignore that dummy for the most part.

I do need, like, lots of reminders that I’m okay, like that people still like me, and the things I’m doing aren’t dumb, and that they don’t hate me, and that I’m making them proud.

It’s embarrassing to need but it shouldn’t be. I’m working on being comfortable with needing emotional things.

It’s hard.

I’ll be back to Binchy, next week, though. It’ll be cooler.

But hey, if you’re looking for a weird but fabulously written book, get this one.

Here is the professional description:

You ever fed yourself something bad? Like a candied rattlesnake, or a couple fingers of antifreeze? Nope? You seen what it done to other people? Like while they’re flopping around on the floor and you’re thinking about how they’re fighting to live? Like while they’re dying they never looked so alive? That’s what Daddy’s is like. In this collection of toxic southern gothics, packaged as a bait box of temptation, Lindsay Hunter offers an exploration not of the human heart but of the spine: mixing sex, violence, and love into a harrowing, head-spinning read that’ll push you a little further toward flopping.

Lindsay Hunter dot com


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