We had a health scare with Dad this last Friday, and for the first time in my life I booked a day-of flight and took an unplanned trip home. Everything's all right, and though I'm shaken I'm thankful for that. My goal is to "make the good times good." To that end, I cooked up the idea of having a Meyer Family Book Club, which is to say we're all supposed to read the new David Mitchell book Bone Clocks to discuss on T-giving. I've been looking forward to the novel, as had Dad who has been hoovering up the reviews, and if Mitchell's previous work is any indication, it should be eminently readable. That's part of the marvel of the man--he reminds me of Joyce with his rollicking creativity and general feeling of expansiveness, and of Nabokov with his architectural trickiness and just walloping brilliance, but he is also a bonafide page-turner-producer. And he's such a relevant and such a moral writer. The final line of Cloud Atlas has been one of my brain refrains since I read the book--"Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?" It actually gives me goosebumps. Anyway, why this entry? When I was home I'd made Dad a thankless sandwich, and when I gave him shit he hit me with, "O what a rogue and peasant slave am I?!" and I got to give myself a titillating little litquiz IDing it (I'm the worst), and thought, gah, I want to read and re-read Shakespeare! I've really missed writing (sloppy sporadic journaling aside), and I miss writing about what I'm reading, which isn't enough by the way. So here's me trying to be ever so slightly more disciplined. And man boy howdy am I rusty. Now I have to make sure none of the ladies have made a break for it, especially Lola, my little sun-warmed pudding.