February was an okay reading month. I really enjoyed two of the books I read, but the rest were just okay. I'm trying to make sure that each month I read at least a couple of books that have been on my shelves for a long time, and that's been going well. As always, click on the titles for my Goodreads reviews.
The War That Saved My Life, by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley. This was a very good middle grade novel about two siblings evacuated from London during WWII. Not the most original premise, but there is an interesting twist: the daughter has a clubfoot and has been kept in her apartment her entire life by her abusive mother. I really enjoyed this one, but oh, that horrible mother made me so furious.
The Miserable Mill, by Lemony Snicket. I sporadically started rereading a Series of Unfortunate Events last year. I'd read the first three, and after I found out that the new Netflix series (which I haven't seen yet) covered up through the fourth book, I decided to reread it so I'll be ready to watch the series. I didn't remember much about this one....it's not one of my favorites but it was still good.
A Little Something Different, by Sandy Hall. This was my fluffy, romantic Valentine's read. It was about what I expected: pretty cute but nothing mind-blowing and not something I'll ever reread. The whole 14 viewpoints thing was hard to get used to.
Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons. I don't even know what to say about this book. It sounded like something that would be right up my alley, but I didn't enjoy it. It improved near the end, but it was strange and bizarre, and so far from the hilarious modern classic I'd been led to expect.
A Pocket Full of Rye, by Agatha Christie. After slogging through Cold Comfort Farm for ten days, a Miss Marple mystery was exactly what I needed! This one was very enjoyable and comforting. (British murder mysteries are comforting to me, apparently?)
The Yarn Whisperer, by Clara Parkes. I enjoy yarny memoirs in general (think Stephanie Pearl McPhee's books), but this one was just okay. I felt like it was trying too hard to be philosophical most of the time, but I did like some of the essays.
In February, I also decided to start quitting books. Not without good reason, of course, but there are so many books that I want to read, why would I waste my time on ones that I'm not enjoying? I struggled through about half of this book, Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict, before finally deciding to stop. It wasn't awful by any means, but it didn't feel worth continuing. I don't know why quitting books has always been so hard for me!
{This post is a little late because honestly it's been a rough week. Pa, my grandfather, passed away Tuesday night. He was eighty-eight, but it felt very unexpected because other than a bad stomach bug for several days previous, he seemed so healthy. My family would appreciate your prayers.}