Not everything that looks cynical is cynical. For example, it seems like everyone is doing a ‘young adult’ book of some kind. The cynical interpretation might be that, following the success of J.K. Rowling, now is a good time to do something (anything) YA. While that is, no doubt, true in a number of cases, it’s not always true.

One book I might have wondered about is the third anthology from the wacky folk at McSweeney’s who, having shown us their enchanted chamber and their mammoth treasury, now prepare to offer us A Book of Evil Marauders, Purple Blobs, and Some Other Things which contains lots of yummy YA goodness by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Kelly Link, George Saunders and others. What I decided, in wondering whether this is a cynical exercise or not is that it doesn’t matter. I’m familiar with most of the authors’ who are in the book, and they don’t write cynically. And to be fair, it’s hard to see something like McSweeney’s Valencia St. project as a cynical exercise. Those are the things that matter. So, another cool book for the ‘to read’ pile. It should be very interesting reading.

The Science Fiction Book Club’s write-up for Best Short Novels: 2005 is over on their website. I’m delighted it’s up on their site, and that you can now order it. The only part that fills me with fear is that it says the ship date is May 27. Given that the proofing for the 210,000 wd book only arrived here May 11, I think it may be a little longer than that. But, not much. I think it’s supposed to go out in July.

So, it goes like this. Wake up Tuesday morning with sharp stabbing pains to the abdomen. Make the requisite fast, short trip to small room. Figure I’m okay to go to work anyhow. A few hours later, reconsider, go home, and put up with the short stabbing pains, some flu symptoms and the short trips to small room for Tuesday and Wednesday. All better now, but not fun.

During the above, as I also temporarily contemplated the collapse of the Strahan/Jablon business empire (it ain’t, but you know how it looks that way sometimes), I figured I wanted to read something, something comforting and cosy. With that in mind, I temporarily set aside The Summer Isles, which is fine and dandy, and went looking for something on the shelves that was more in keeping with rainy afternoons and self-pity. Hmmm. There’s nothing quite like a good YA novel for such situations, so I pulled out Justine‘s Magic or Madness. She’d kindly given me a copy of the galley in Boston last year, and I’d put it on the ‘to read’ shelf, meaning to get to it.

Well, Magic or Madness is delicious. It’s the story of the requisitely plucky Reason, a young Australian girl who has been on the run from her wicked grandmother for most of her life. While there’s much we don’t know at the outside, we know there’s an evil witch, some strangeness about ammonites, mathematics and magic, at least one descent into madness, and the threat of early death for our heroine. There’s also a door into winter, a magic portal that links the suburbs of Sydney directly to the streets of Manhattan. It was a book I really enjoyed, sprinting through its pages in no time at all. I think I can see the pattern to the story – it’s the first in a trilogy – but I can’t wait to see what happens next.

So, should you read it? Yes! Should you go buy/order it now? Yes! Did I wonder if Reason was pretty much Justine, from the pants full of pockets to the trips from Sydney to New York – yes. It’s way cool. And Justine, I want the next one. Really. Soon.

This is long, rambling, discursive, and not terribly accurate. It attempts a first-pass answer to Gwenda Bond’s question: what kind of reader are you? Not as self-aware as I should be, but willing to attempt the answer.

I’m not sure I’m the sort of reader you should listen to. Before things went awry in early 1997, I was a good, loyal reader. I would only read books that I wanted to, that attracted me for some reason. I felt no compulsion to read the right book or make the virtuous choice. Comfort reading was fine with me. I would only read one book at a time, and I finished EVERY book I started, without ever checking the end first (I still don’t). I was the kind of reader that became totally immersed in a book, often walking down streets, bumping into signs while reading. I didn’t particularly think about what I read, I just consumed, voraciously. It was simple literary gluttony, and it was all about unconditional love.

In 1997 I became a book reviewer. Suddenly I had to think about what to say about what I read. I also, gradually, began to stop having to buy so many of the books I read. This changed things. I became opinionated, judgemental, non-committal and unfaithful. I realised I didn’t HAVE to finish a book. I often don’t. I also formulated my only rule of reading: if it’s over 400 pages long and says book one on the cover, don’t read it. I don’t stick to it religiously, but it’s a guide.

What else? I am a planner. I am always intending to read this or that fascinating piece of non-fiction; to read so many stories or books in a certain period of time; or even to read everything by someone or on a subject. I never do. I am a peripatetic reader. I have become a pretentious wannabe reader. I want to have read this or that. I feel like I should. I mostly don’t. I always check out what other people are reading or have in their homes. I am judgemental and feel free to disapprove, but not to say so.

I have developed terrible prejudices about books. I often don’t like a book simply because of the way it looks, who it’s written by, the paper stock, how I feel on the day, or how I imagine it may be given no particular evidence whatsoever. I struggle to overcome this, but often fail. There are books and writers that I love, and those I admire and want to love (but don’t really). I feel guilty about this, but cannot overcome it. For example, I love Terry Pratchett. He is so enjoyable to read, it’s just a delight (his Tiffany Aching books are magical). I like and admire Gene Wolfe. It’s a bit like eating bran or doing homework – I feel virtuous when I read him. I’m not sure it’s fun, but reading something like The Wizard Knight I feel like I’m being a good, responsible reader, reading ‘good’ books. Doing something that I should. I also get impatient when I read. If, for just about any reason, I find myself still reading a book after about a week, I’m likely to lose interest and move on. Sometimes I just lose interest, and stop. I no longer feel bad about this.

On the plus side, if I love a book or writer, I am both passionate and loyal. I fall deeply in love with the books that I do fall for. I want to tell EVERYone about them, hector people about the wonder of a book, to read everything the author has done, help make them incredibly successful. This doesn’t always work, but I want it to. For example, I just read Neil’s Anansi Boys. I love it. You will. I know you will. I also loved Geoff Ryman’s Air last year. It’s the best. Every time I walk past my copy I feel good. I want to go on and on about it, make sure other readers read it. I am an evangelist.

In 2003 something else happened to change my reading and the kind of reader that I am: I began to edit year’s best anthologies. Suddenly I had to read, or attempt to read, every piece of new short fiction I could lay my hands on. It’s a responsibility I take VERY seriously. I look for books and stories; get emailed stories, magazines, collections and anthologies. I’m still working out how it’s changed me as a reader, but it has meant I am even less committed to finish what I read, and more committed to overcoming my irrational prejudices, to be an optimist. I will give any story a page or maybe page and a half to impress me, and that’s it. If it fails in that time, I’ve moved on. But, I do start everything and, no matter how much I may have disliked something by an author before, I always try to start with the view that this story is the one that’s going to blow me away, that this one is the start of a fabulous love affair. When it works, when I read something like Chris Rowe’s “The Voluntary State” or Jeff VanderMeer’s “Three Days in a Border Town”, I’m sold, a convert. In fact, as a reader of short fiction, I’m a little like a badly dehydrated man swimming in the ocean. Everywhere you look is water, but nothing to drink. When there is something to drink, I’m voracious, passionate – evangelical, I guess. Oh, I also try to be fair, to not be tired or annoyed or whatever when I read for anthologies. I always want the writer to get the advantage (if that’s what it is) of the best possible reader I can be.

What else? I read a lot of magazines, but am a ridiculously inconsistent magazine reader. I read fiction and non-fiction magazines, but the only non-fiction magazines I read are music magazines. I don’t read any magazine in published order, no matter what it is. I rarely read all of any magazine, and I mostly read genre fiction magazines as printouts. Hmm. I also think the digest magazines are annoying to read. Don’t like ’em at all, but I’d read them if that was the only way to get the fiction.

I don’t know what else to say. What kind of reader am I? Lucky, but fickle. Irritable, but passionate. In love with the moment when the story hits, passionate about sharing it. A little guilty I’m not reading what I should, but in love with what I am reading.

It was Mothers Day here today. Marianne, the girls, my brother and my mother headed off to a nice park near the river for a barbequeue. Although I’m fairly whacked now, it all went well, as per below.