Val McDermid’s Winter caught me at exactly the right moment. I’ve always had a
complicated relationship with the season: as a child I adored it, as a working
adult I tolerated it, and now, creeping toward what the poets politely call
“the winter of life,” I mostly dread it. Yet somehow this slim, illustrated
volume turned the gloom around for me. Reading it felt less like opening a book
and more like settling down for a long, fireside chat with an old friend who
happens to love the very things I’ve started to resent—the iron-cold air, the
early dark, the whole damp Scottish midwinter package.
McDermid writes with the ease of someone talking across a kitchen table, drifting between memories of childhood sledging in Fife...
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Disclaimer: I received an advanced digital copy of this book from NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
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