I read like a child wandering through a garden. I start out with the intent to explore within a form, or to trace a genre. I set my path, only to be distracted by unusual blooms from out of unexpected corners. I chase the shimmering wings of a dragonfly down a verdant dead end.  I become tangled in an unfurling vine. I crisscross the garden at intersecting angles and ramble in looping trails.

I start the year reading new release fiction and get sidetracked by memoir and essay. I go on a tangent with novellas and poetry and I emerge blinking in the borderlands between experimental, speculative and dystopian fiction. I am guided on my meandering by enthusiastic book reviews, seductive bookstore displays, the obligations of book club, the hype of awards long and shortlists, and the insistent recommendations of friends.