Virginia Woolf once said that books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately. She was right, of course. (Woolf usually is.)
This Women’s Month, you proved it. The women writers you shared with me didn’t feel like a tidy reading list. They felt like one long, slightly chaotic conversation across centuries. Atwood with the sly eyebrow. Morrison with the gravitas. Dangarembga with the scalpel. If you listened closely, you could almost hear them talking to each other.
August may be packing up slowly, but books are terrible at endings. They sneak into your September, underline themselves in your notebook, and insist on one more chapter when you were planning to go to bed early.
Our shelves are full of those voices still mid-conversation. Some dramatic, some joyful, some gloriously messy. Come and see what’s waiting. And if the one you’re hunting is missing, don’t panic. That’s just a subplot. Drop us a clue (yellow cover, heroine may or may not also be a witch-lawyer) and we’ll investigate.
Because the story always goes on.
PS: This was meant to end a paragraph ago. Typical book behaviour.