I’ve only read three books since July 1.
This is unusual, unlike me, a signofthestressthatiamundergoingyouguysican’tevenreadabookomgomg.
I’m trying to trick myself back into the reading groove.
I checked out an easy-to-read-nonfiction book that is also a hot-buzz-everyone’s-reading-it title.
I reminded myself that, oh yes, sometimes I get paid to write reviews so I should you know, read those books I need to review.
I ignored my well-wishing and read some more of The Kingdom of Little Wounds because it reminds me a little of GoT.
Okay, fine. I even downloaded Clash of Kings onto my iPhone so I can listen to it before bed. What of it?
None of my self-trickery is working particularly well. The number of things I would rather do than read is unusually vast. Rearrange my bookshelves. Unload my dishwasher. Play Candy Crush (oof). Watch another episode of Orange is the New Black. Shower.
Trying to go easy on myself. My life did just go through a bit of a seismic shift. My attention span is untrained. My energy levels are uneven.
And I just moved. I moved when I was 6, 13, 18, 22, 24, 25, 27 and 28. I know moving. It’s a pain in the butt, it costs a lot of money, unexpected bad things happen. But the whole Packing Up The Physical Manifestation of Your Existence puts you face to face with parts of your life that you’d rather not face. Procrastinator Jessica who hoards crafting supplies for years without using them. Pretentious Jessica who keeps fancy books on the shelf she knows she’ll never read. Clutter-prone Jessica who can’t throw away useless, ugly little trinkets because she’s had them since she moved when she was 6.
Unpacking, I found the physical manifestation of two years of my reading. Two sheets of paper folded into fourths, marking what books I read in what month.
In August 2011, I read 4 books: one was a Sarah Dessen re-read, three were Harry Potter.
I’m a slow summer reader with a tendency toward fluff.
Go easy on me.
(… said me, to myself)