In Boy George’s 2023 autobiography Karma, he says: “Having an opinion is always bad for business.”

He’s got lots of them himself, but there’s he’s describing—and celebrating—how Taylor Swift took a political stance against homophobia when some warned her it was bad for business.

Author Louise Penny has spoken out against aggression and cancelled tour stops in the United States recently. It’s not a political stance, she says: it’s a moral stance.

“You may not control all the events that happen to you,” Maya Angelou said, “but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

I think about Emma adjusting her social media usage to reduce her support of oligarchs and billionaires. I think about Andrew directing our attention to the struggles of booksellers confronting censorship overseas. I think of Stefanie sharing links to organisations that highlight human rights’ violations so Americans can register their opinions. (And Andrew writing stories that bring events in the headlines into our hearts.)

I think about the Open Letter from South Jersey about targeting of universities. I think of Lauren B. Davis inviting her neighbours for soup, and discussing #47’s false declaration that Ukraine was responsible for the Russian invasion. (Check out her recipe for Cauliflower and Sweet Potato goodness.) Of Bruce Robbins writing from the campus of Columbia University. (And Lauren writing books that remind us how essential compassion and courage, both, are.)

Again I think about Maya Angelou, a quote I had on my fridge for years: “Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.”

First on my #ShelfofMexico (I renamed it earlier this year) is a novel by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. She was born in Mexico in 1981, and she came to Canada in 2004, where she studied at the University of British Columbia. Since then, she’s published four chapbooks, four collections of stories, and eleven novels, with her newest, The Bewitching, due this summer.

Signal to Noise (2015) is set in Mexico City. It gives Eleanor and Park vibes, and the sense of the city subtly permeates the story: no long descriptive passages, scenes stuffed with detail that create an atmosphere (seemingly by accident). The story itself is about two misfit teenagers, Meche and Sebastian, whose friendship sustained them when they were young, who reconnect when one returns to the city for a family funeral. The music is fabulous and it was interesting to compare her handling of a dual narrative (two time frames here—1988 and 2009—two characters in Velvet Was the Night).

Mexican Gothic (2020) brought du Maurier’s Rebecca to mind, except that it begins with Noemí who leaves Mexico City in the 1950s to travel to a small mountain town. Her cousin now lives there—in the rich, Manderley-ish family home her new, English husband has inherited via their family’s historic silver mine—and sends a letter that indicates Catalina is in distress.

The stranger-come-to-town device offers a fresh perspective on cousin Catalina’s bizarre behaviour (she’s physically weakened and mentally unstable, only occasionally alone or capable of communicating—once by inserting a warning note in a collection of poetry and asking for a poem to be read). The story stays with Noemí, so that readers follow her discoveries with equal parts interest and intrigue.

So far I am really impressed by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. I enjoy the way that her stories seem to echo a dozen others, but without feeling like copies. They feel like fun reads, but there’s substance too. And, in the three I’ve read so far, it’s clear that her characters are smart and compassionate, but sometimes they make flawed decisions (as do we all): for my taste, she balances these factors very well, so that tensions are credible and the stakes matter.

Guadalupe Nettel’s After the Winter (2014; translated by Rosalind Harvey, 2018) is one of four books by the Mexican author, who recently received international acclaim for Still Born, shortlisted for the International Booker in 2023. She has published fiction and non-fiction, and she was named one of the Bogotá 39 in 2007 (it’s like the Granta lists of young writers to watch).

After the Winter has narratives set in Oaxaca, Mexico, but also Paris and Manhattan. Straight away, readers recognise that there are two key storylines, but the question lurking in the wings is whether/how they will connect.

Nettel handles this so beautifully, with the lightest scent of inevitability that you almost sigh when it happens, nearly halfway into the story. (Instead, save that sigh for later.) I read this one because I had a copy of the Coffeehouse Press translation (such a fine indie press) but now I want to read her others too.

I thought this would be astutely observed and intellectually satisfying…and it is. What I didn’t expect was to find myself so invested in the story. It’s one of the books I’ve thought back to most often in this reading year.

Agustina Bazterrica is an Argentine writer, born in Buenos Aires in 1974. She’s published five novels and five collections of stories; two of her novels and one collection have been translated into English.

The tremendous success of Tender is the Flesh (2017; translated by Sarah Moses, 2020) made me hesitant to try it, even though I bought it early on (a bookseller convinced me). Then a librarian friend, whose reading taste is rather different than that bookseller’s, insisted that I try it; that intrigued me—two readers with disparate tastes both falling hard for this story.

What can I say? “Everyone” is correct. She balances concept with character in a most satisfying way, and in barely 200 pages.

And that’s where I’ll leave it, because launching myself into this read without any knowledge of the plot, was just perfect. (There’s an excerpt on the publisher’s website, but you’ll have to find your own way there, cuz you’ll surely spoil the story on your travels.)

My friend had already bought Unworthy, which came out early March, and now I see why. I’m also eager to read Bazterrica’s short stories, even though I hadn’t thought they would be to my taste. Sometimes a writer’s talents get under your skin so determinedly that you can’t look away.

I’ll be writing about Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector’s An Apprenticeship or The Book of Pleasures under separate cover; it was an intimidating choice for me, and I’d previously read only a few of her stories (inspired by Mel’s enthusiasm for her work). Along with a Gabriel Garcia Marquez collection. Which brings me to six reads on this shelf in 2025 so far.

But I haven’t yet begun Miguel de Palol’s The Garden of Seven Twilights (Trans. Adrian Nathan West). It’s a whopper. Anyone else up for a challenge?

Which hasn’t stopped me from assembling my second #ShelfofMexico. Some of these were your recommendations—gathered together on this project page—with more of those to come.

And I’ve been making my own batch of soup. It’s from one of my favourite cookbooks: very simple recipes, clear instructions, great flavour, and tips for making daily home-cooked meals a habit to boost your resilience with good food. (Your immune system will thank you.)

Here’s the recipe via Impact Magazine: Black Bean and Tomato Soup with Toasted Fennel Seed. (I’ve made eleventy-billion tomato soups: the fennel makes this one magic.)

I’m eating soup. And I’m reading. And I’m writing about reading. Reaching for the extraordinary.

Remembering what Aunt Lydia said in The Handmaid’s Tale about ordinary being just what we’re used to: ” This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary.”