Reading tastes

I was browsing Whitcoulls today, when I realised I was more interested in the non-fiction section than the fiction. But who wants to read something like Jodi Picoult (whose every book ends with a twist which changes the whole story, breaking the "reader's trust" every time — what's the point of emotionally investing myself in a story that is, ultimately, out to mislead me?) when I could be reading about the tragedies of 1812 or what made Stalin the way he was? Why would I want to read about formulaic characters in a formulaic plot when I could read about people who lived and breathed?

This isn't to say I've gone off fiction by any means. I still love Juliet Marillier, Georgette Heyer, Ian McEwan and many others; but I just find a lot more to interest me in the non-fiction section, these days.

I hope this is some sign that my tastes are expanding somewhat; or at least that I have a wider range of interests now.

And in regards to my birthday, I was so happy with everything I got. A sheep, two goats, two toilets, Bibles, schoolbooks, two sets of immunisations, and a mosquito net. I actually feel like my birthday really has helped people, for the first time ever. I feel like I've helped people by having my birthday this way. It was a little weird to get little silver cards instead of birthday presents, but on the up-side I liked everything I got, and once I started to tally all my presents together it made me feel really good. Maybe I'll do it for my next birthday, as well. Who knows — but, at least, I'm glad I did it this year.