I checked Louise Erdrich’s new book Plague of Doves out of the library for two reasons. One: her ex-husband was Michael Dorris, whose writing I loved immensely (although research into his life reveals he was kind of a big nasty creep). I figure if I were a great writer, I wouldn’t marry someone whose writing sucked, and based on this, since Dorris was so fantastic, Erdrich can’t be too shabby herself. I know this is a bad reason to check out a book. WORSE yet is my second reason.
The cover. It’s so good. It’s so birdie and nice and a little Escher-y. I am no art critic, but hell, I would hang this on my wall. (This isn’t even really a compliment, in retrospect, coming from the person who hung a south-western themed TRAY on her bedroom wall merely because it had a cactus on it and was turquoise and purple). The more that I look at this cover, the more I am thinking about how much I love birdies. This is making me think about spirit animals, which is making me a little bit sad because I know doves, and their other feathered cousins, are not my spirit animals. I think about spirit animals a lot. I am 99% sure that my spirit animal is the humble otter. I like to swim, and lay on my back in the water, and stand up on my back legs looking curious, and have endless energy, all of which I share with otters. My brother recently told me an anecdote about how he left a party early, and right after he left, his friends were assigning spirit animals to everyone at the party, and without his presence, they were fumbling for a new animal and assigned him THE FANCY CHICKEN. He is no fancy chicken, you fools. Also I have been told before that rats are my spirit animals, and I reject this emphatically, although I do have rodent-y features (i.e. Really Big Teeth). I also have to give big, big props to T. for breaking spirit animals down a lot better than I ever will.
This is basically all to say that last night I started reading Plague of Doves. Mountains out of molehills, people. That’s my thing.