I started this blog primarily because I hoped it would force me to write reviews of the books I was reading which, I crossed my fingers, would help me remember them for longer than a week. Happily the blog has turned out to have had some unforeseen and delightful side effects (i.e. you, dear subscribers, commenters and occasional passers-by) and I’ve found that writing the reviews, chore though it has sometimes been, has indeed been a great help. It’s not only their content that jogs my ailing memory when I re-read them but it seems that the very fact of writing the review makes the details of each reviewed book stick in my head more than the details of an un-reviewed book.
I have what feel like concrete evidence of this (though scientists would scoff, at best it’s anecdotal). Since the beginning of March I’ve read 15 books, 12 of which I’ve written reviews of and 3 of which I meant to write reviews of but never quite made it. Tonight I looked at that list of 3 books and realised I didn’t have enough sensible memories of any of them to write much more than “I liked it”.
I suppose it does me good to be reminded that I have to work at having a better recall of the books I read (I’m making a new April resolution to write a review within 2 days of finishing each book), and at least it’s only three books that have fallen through the cracks of my faulty memory.
For the record I liked all three books (in my database the first two are rated 3.5 and the last one a 3) but I can’t tell you much more than one was a Norwegian police procedural about hate crimes (and I can recall thinking I would have something to say on that particular issue in my review as I have real problems with the very notion), the next a psychological suspense tale of a woman who had been a party girl (of the kind I dislike rather a lot) until she unwittingly invited a monster into her life (a fate I would not wish even on drunken party girls) and the last a fun cosy set in and around a White House almost littered with deceased persons.