Let the holiday reading begin. Every year in December, I read the same two or three books. It's a weird little personal ritual, but I love it. Those books are The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and if I get all the reading time I dream of, All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren. I am a re-reader, so if I really enjoy a book there's a good chance I'll pick it up again in the future. I also read plenty of new stuff in a year, most of it fiction, most of it from the 20th century, and probably half of it pretty forgettable. I don't view that as wasted time. Every book can't change your life. But this time of year is about celebration, and in my little world of reading, I celebrate by breaking out books that age like fine wine, that get better every time I read them, and that never fail to remind me that a great story, well told, is truly a beautiful thing.

Today I was enjoying the incredible luxury of having breakfast by myself at one of my favorite places and reading the first few chapters of The Great Gatsby. Kate was at Mom's Morning Out at our church (Oh how thankful I am for Mom's Morning Out) and after a checkup with my midwife for the baby, I had some time to myself. The hostess seated me next to a table of three middle-aged gentlemen in suits who were having some sort of high-powered business discussion. As they got up to leave, the last one to leave the table stopped in front of me and said "Oh, that's such a great book.I saw that you were reading it and I just had to say something, because I love that book."
"It really is so good, isn't it?" was about all the response I managed in my surprise. But I swear I thought that man was going to come around the table and hug me, one reader to another. I probably would have hugged him back. We book people have to stick together.