Second Innings!

If my memory serves me well, I am here, again, after four years. It shouldn’t be surprising for my one-digit row of followers considering my last post promised a barrage of posts while comparing laziness to selective participation. However, today, as I stood looking on at people, for no good reason why, even as they lived on, I had an epiphanous realization that I needed a project or my good mind shall take my leave and revoke any and all claims on me. Now, I am no good at playing a damsel in distress, and this is no way to live.

Hence, in a dire bid to save whatever is left of my sanity and identity (I am a writer, dammit), I bravely embark on a project, that I believe, will change my life. Like any good day dreamer, I already imagine a book and a movie deal (BBC version, pref) at the end of the 365 days where I will read 200 books.

WHY, you ask, my nine followers. Here’s why – I am no reviewer, for reviewers need a detachment that allows them to move between text to text at a speed and proficiency that can put any sponge to shame. I have neither the desire nor the dexterity to match their fluency and books for me are insanely personalised (focus on ‘insane’). I have in the past impersonated, or even better, with moderate to dismal success, lived my life as a fictitious character, quite literally, both inside and outside of my head. Moreover, I have acquired a taste in wallowing and, dios mi, how the traits, lives, travails of another help in viewing the bromidic realities of one’s own life. It’s imperative to mention here how trite my life can sometimes be that the epitome of chaos is built as I google check, like a sailor with amnesia battling the north wind, the spelling for ‘received’. (I had misspelled it even here.)

So, here goes nothing. I will, for the first few week, pick up half read books of the past years and tell you of my life as I read them. Be forewarned, there will be spoilers, but then, at least, you will be saved the trouble of actual reading and proceed to engage, quite unabashedly, in menial conversation, much like I have over the years, and find yourself a menagerie of admirers, who wish they could be you.(You could direct them here.)

And, as you throng your way here, please, if you continue to read me even after a few weeks (that is, if I continue to write) please recommend books you wish for me to allow to direct my life, or what I once knew as it.

Here’s to another something. The first book you will read about is loosely based on my life, if I were young in Iran.


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