Last summer, I was eating books alive. I lived in a nice apartment with a pool in the middle of a quad that was just an elevator ride away. Now I live in a townhouse with a nice enough pool but it’s too far for this disabled old lady to walk to, so I have to drive the three blocks to it. The pool is important, you see, because it’s where I did so very much of my reading every warm season for a few years.
This year, I’ve hardly been to the pool at all. And I’ve hardly been reading.
I’ve dabbled in some short stories a la my subscription to Lightspeed Magazine, sure, and I’m reading a friend’s manuscript and I’ve started The Martian and I’m picking up the Harry Potter series all over again – but it’s all just prodding at reading. I’m not really digging in.
Part of the problem, I think, is that I’m also editing a writing a lot. Something about being constantly bombarded by words makes it hard to take up reading more of them as a hobby. I haven’t yet figured out how to balance both. And I miss reading for fun, I really do!