Lately I’ve been pretty unsatisfied in my reading life. I have been going through my worst reading funk to date and I don’t know what will pull me out of it.
It’s funny. I keep a list of everything I read. And if I look at that list, scan past the abandoned books (lately there have been far too many to count), and note the books I did manage to finish, I would say, in almost every case, I liked that book.
So it’s not the books.
It’s the experience of reading that leaves me wanting. I just don’t feel the same joy I used to when I read. Reading has become a wild stop and start pattern. From one subway stop to the next. In the five minutes while I wait on line. Just before I drift off to sleep. In the fifteen free minutes between stirring the soup and writing for the night. It’s an in-between kind of reading. A squeeze-it-in when and where I can.
I just don’t know where to find the hours to sit and read. I want to read from start to finish. I don’t want to have to stop. I just want to go until I can not go anymore.
The reading moments I remember are always the moments when I was able to sit and read for hours and hours. On a hammock. On a beach. In a bed. On a train.
It’s the book more than the place. And it’s the feeling more than the book.
I’m thinking of taking a reading vacation. And I don’t mean a vacation from reading. I mean a day off. To settle in. And read.
Who will join me? Where will we sit? What will we read?