It has not been a good year for reading. I’m not talking about a dearth of reading material choices and options; I’m talking about my ability to settle down long enough and let my brain be still enough to read.
Last year I set a goal via Good Reads: I would read 45 books between January and December. In keeping with what we will just call “the story of my life,” I failed to read 45 books – but I did manage to read 38 books.
(Well. Heh. I kind of read 40 books if you consider that I was so taken with Black Wings Has My Angel by Elliott Chaze and The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis that I read each of those books twice) (Oh. And for some reason my “comfort” reading before bed last year was The Stench of Honolulu by Jack Handey. Over the course of a year’s worth of nights, I suppose I read that [very short book] something like 25 times.)
This year it didn’t even occur to me to set a goal and then keep updating for the rest of the year to see how close I might come. I don’t know if I just had a hunch (a hunch so slight that I that I never really felt it) about the implausibility of it. I just know that I can barely remember the few books I’ve read this year, and have to go back in my Kindle to get any kind of idea about what they were.
I read a LOT this year – lots and lots of online news and periodicals. Which is a fine way to pass the time (and a great way to scare yourself and sicken yourself and get yourself worked into a snit before and after work every single day), but it doesn’t help with improving writing the way good books always have and will.
Of course I’d love to blame Trump and the effect his presidency is having not just on me but on the entire world. But he was president last year and I still read 38 (or can we say 40?) books.
Let’s be honest, though: this time last year we really didn’t know – nobody really knew; how could anybody know? – how bad things were going to be right now, and certainly not at the beginning of last year. Thinking about how much time Trump has left in his term to do even more damage with even more dire consequences for mankind does pretty much obsess me and depress me and stress me out.
Most of the blame belongs to me. The level of distraction at which I’ve found myself in the last year is as severe as any I’ve ever suffered. Starting a new job? Perimenopause? The start of the Real Midlife Crisis? Something is shifting within and without me, that’s the main and biggest truth.
So anyway. How many books did I begin and finish this year? It would seem the total is eight (8). Eight books in eleven months? Sadly, I bought so many books this year. I guess this means I maybe need to put a moratorium on new purchases for the next year?
Whether I finish any additional books this year I will make a year-end list of Top Fives. I might even set a goal with plans for an actual reading program!
Haha! No I won’t!
Make no mistake: I know the world gives zero shits.
Why do I even blog?