Reading Seasons:
By Thio Isobel Moss
It’s funny how what we’re going through shapes what we want to read. Consider this a deceptively light introduction to something a little more serious. After Blind Spot’s release, I was startled — and a bit alarmed — to find myself craving mysteries over fantasy. I love both, but fantasy is usually my comfort zone. I suspect I was a little burned out after the release push and the whirlwind of learning new systems.
More recently, I’ve been on a romance kick. I should be reviewing a lovely mystery I downloaded from NetGalley, but I’m doing the author, publisher, and myself a favor by stalling and binge-reading romances instead. At first, I chalked it up to work stress. That’s part of it — but Sunday, my world shifted. My great aunt passed away.
I never knew my grandmother on that side of the family; she died from breast cancer a few years before I was born. My great aunt quietly stepped into that space for many of us. I don’t think the loss has fully settled in yet.
I remember her visiting when I was a teen — nearly an adult — and sending my cousins and me to my room because we were too loud. At the time, I thought it was nervy. Later, my parents explained that travel and being a guest made her anxious; that small act was her way of regaining control.
Another time, we were playing a word game at her house. She used a technicality to play two words instead of one. When I called her sneaky, she giggled.
I remember library trips and plays, so I’m certain she was a reader, though I don’t know what she preferred. I suspect the billionaire romances I’ve been devouring wouldn’t have been her style. Still, they’ve been the escape I needed — something lighter than the intricate, puzzle-box stories I usually gravitate toward.
I’ll admit I can be a bit of a romance snob. I love the classics, but certain modern tropes raise questions for me. Stalker narratives, for example, don’t read as romantic when you’ve experienced that kind of fear firsthand. Crime lords and billionaires can feel excessive, though I appreciate the expanded storytelling canvas they allow. Helicopter rides and sweeping gestures aren’t cheap, after all.
Yet this is the genre I turned to for comfort — and it’s delivered. I’ve read four novels in as many days, with more queued up. They don’t fill the space that loss creates, but they give me room to breathe.
I’ll be taking a few days off to travel. This post is scheduled ahead, so things remain steady here.
I’ve never paid much attention to my reading patterns before, and I’m curious what future moods might bring. Biography or poetry with reflection? Nonfiction or How-to? I’ve been thinking that I should improve my art skills. Writing is clearly a form of expression, but reading is, too.
Reading connects us. It’s a walk through another person’s imagination, populated by echoes of real lives and experiences. Right now, I’m drawn to stories that promise happy endings, manageable emotions, and a sense of safe distance.
This isn’t the happiest post, but it fascinates me how we instinctively seek shelter — even in imaginary worlds. Books meet us where we are, offering refuge in every season. And every story has its conclusion.
Happy reading.
