Wild, by Cheryl Strayed: I loved, adored, fawned over, cried for, worshipped Tiny Beautiful Things, and have returned to it time and time again when I just need a little... something. In fact, I love it so much I'm not sure I'm brave enough to read her other work.
The Cuckoo's Calling, by Robert Galbraith: I was a fan of The Casual Vacancy, even though a lot of people panned it, but I just haven't found this one calling to me. Has anyone read it? Should I?
War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy: I admitted defeat on this one when I tried to read it last year. I can't bring myself to get rid of my copy... but I also have no motivation to pick it back up.
The Son, by Philip Myer: I have no reasoning for this one. I saw the author speak at Politics and Prose with Rachel from Home Between the Pages, and he was awesome. I know lots of bloggers, like Shannon from River City Reading, cite it as a favorite novel of 2013. But for some reason, I keep picking it up... and promptly putting it back down again. Someone talk me into this.
Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen: I've written before about how I don't think Austen is for me, but I keep thinking maybe I just haven't read the right Austen novel... yet. Maybe
The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., by Adele Waldman: I've had this since it came out last summer, but have never made it more than a dozen pages in. Anyone read it? Worth pushing through?
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