I don’t love Ursula Le Guin’s non-fiction as much as her fiction, but at least it’s always a pleasure to read. This book has a rather charming diary of a writer’s week when she attended a writing retreat, including some very nice observations of rabbits which chime well with what I know of my domestic buns. There’s also various essays on genre, and her other usual preoccupations. And then there’s her book reviews — I could wish there weren’t as many of Atwood’s work, who I don’t have much interest in, but it was interesting to see her thoughts on books and authors I know, and especially to see her glowing piece on Jo Walton’s Among Others.
I still prefer her fiction — as she did herself — but I cherished reading this, to.