As a born+bred, habitual, compulsive, lifelong reader, not reading for any period of time feels strange. Not wanting to read feels stranger. Like not wanting to eat.

My response to reading malaise is to meander between books: books I think I should read, books I was excited about at some point, books that have been sitting on my shelves for years, books that I’ve been halfway through for months. It doesn’t usually feel great – I force myself to finish chapters, knowing that I’ll never finish, which is painful and discouraging and I think that I will never want to read again.

Then I find a book that works. Usually something that is easy to read, which is code for books that might be considered Chick Lit or Ghostwritten or Otherwise Embarrassing and Trashy. I find myself choosing Book over Internet (!) I get really excited when I sit down on the subway and remember that I get an mostly uninterrupted 15 minutes of reading.

One or two books set a spark, and then I’m back to my regular hold-addicted, book juggling self.

Maybe I just need to stop thinking so hard and just read what gets the fire started.