One thing I resolved to do this year was read a book a week.
I’ve always loved reading. And as a writer, reading is imperative. Reading as much as you can. Whenever you can. And a good mix of it too.
I strongly believe that if you want to write well, you need to read well. In fact, if you want to think well, you need to read well.
And so I plan to share, each week, the book that I have read, and a short review of what I thought, or felt, liked or didn’t like.
This week I read: Summer at Tiffany by Marjorie Hart.
It was fun. Joyful. Innocent. A romp of a memoir about a couple of college pals from Iowa that head to New York City in the 1940s and get a Summer job at Tiffany’s – at a time when Tiffany only employed men.
Hart, now in her 80s, reflects upon the best Summer of her life – with her best friend by her side, they navigate their way through a new city – the opportunities, the challenges, the boys, the stores bursting with things they want most – cosmetics, hats, gloves and designer dresses – and life, in a post-war country.
It’s the kind of story, all entirely true might I add, that makes you want to switch eras. Hart’s charming account of her Summer of 1945 is romantic – it presents the city, the people, the time, Tiffany – through peachy pink coloured glasses. And the reason I suspect she presented such an account is because it was accurate – the New York she describes is hopeful and engrossing, the people gentle and friendly, and the time – tough, but utterly glorious, and wholly full of promise.