I’m currently reading a fantasy novel for a book club I’m part of that is pure autumnal cosiness. It’s called A Dark and Secret Magic by Wallis Kinney, and it’s perhaps the cosiest book I’ve ever read, barring Legends and Lattes.
When I started it, the level of cosy was almost too much for me… I felt like the author was packing in absolutely every cosy thing you could possibly think of – delicious food and drinks, a quaint cottage, a cat, a fireplace, books, festive decorations, a friendly witch, even some crafty crochet moments – and I wasn’t willing to be wooed by her obvious tricks! Soon enough, however, I found myself falling under the story’s spell and wanting to return to it every evening to mentally curl up next to that warm fire.
All this brought up a question for me that I’ve often pondered and discussed with friends – what, exactly, makes a book cosy?
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