The One Hundred
by Nina Garcia
Basic and beautiful fashion and shopping tips with lovely illustrations. If you’re a Project Runway fan, you’ll love it even more.

He vaguely mentioned a few years ago that he’d kicked the habit but I didn’t really believe him, in the same way that I suspect most smokers usually bum a cigarette every now and then at a bar when they’re drinking cheap lite beer. Not long before our conversation, I’d given him Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie, winner of the Booker of Bookers (best of the best). He told me he’d never finished it. I figured he just didn’t like it that much but eventually he would come up with some other author he loved and away he’d go. But it was not to be.

Astute readers have noticed that last month was devoid of a “books” entry. That’s because I did not read any books. I blamed it on the move and the hot weather and the kid learning to walk. But we’re over halfway through August and I haven’t picked up a single book, and since I’m staying in a hotel and my most strenuous daily activity consists of playing defense against Theo as he tries to dodge past me in the elevator and hit the alarm button (Incidentally, why are those buttons always at the bottom of the stack, exactly toddler-high?), you’d think I might make time to at least thumb through something by Maeve Binchy. But I just can’t get motivated. I haven’t even finished all the articles in the September issue of Vanity Fair and it’s almost September!

This morning I was riffling through the stack of junk stuffed in the drawer of my bedside table. Underneath the free copies of USA Today, I found my copy of Midnight’s Children. I’d forgotten I started reading it at the beginning of July. And never picked it up again, not even when Theo was asleep on the plane or at night before bed during Olympic weight-lifting prelims.

So I’m writing this to warn you never to read that particular book, unless you aspire to give up reading books forever. And if you see me wandering around, a half-finished National Enquirer tucked under one arm, blame Salman Rushdie.

What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman
There’s nothing more frustrating that getting to the end of a whodunit and realizing the whole thing has collapsed and you’ve just wasted a whole book’s worth of wondering.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
I kept forgetting to read this. I’d sit down to read and think, “hmm…what book am I reading right now?” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but having said that, it was enjoyable to read once I finally remembered to pick it up.

The Gatheringby Anne Enright
More of a description of one woman’s reaction to her brother’s death, including the emotions and memories it evokes, than a story. By the end, I didn’t feel that I was in a different place than where I’d begun, but the characters were vivid and the language fluid.

Nigella Express by Nigella Lawson
I really want Nigella’s hair and her kitchen, but her cookbook will have to do.

Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier
My friends who read this romantic yarn about a Confederate deserter’s journey back home didn’t like it, but they read it when it was at the height of its hype. My advice: wait to read books when they’ve gone out of fashion and you have no expectations. I loved Frazier’s writing, and the story is a good one.

Fargo Rock City by Chuck Klosterman
My reading pleasure was enhanced by being almost exactly the same age and from the same kind of town as the author of this book. Also, it helped that I still listen to Def Leppard.