📚Dragging into the beginning of December, this nonfiction November stack was a refuge from the elation and devastation that November brought.
There was solidarity in the anger, outrage, grief and elation of my own life between the pages of these novels.
It’s weird not having the escapism of fiction to sneak away to, and instead having to confront others devastating and sometimes unimaginable experiences.
Turning now to December one can only hope things become more joyful. I’m hoping the next text I pick up will transport me far, far away. If only for a little while.