read [reed], read·ing [ree-ding] noun
verb (used with object)
1. to look at carefully so as to understand the meaning of (something written, printed, etc.): to read a book
I just realized this morning, as I sorted through a stack of unread back copies of the New York Times Book Review, that I haven't actually picked up a book to read in nearly a month! [Ed. Note: Magazines do not count as reading, unless it happens to be Vanity Fair]
Now if I've been reading for awhile, uninterruptedly devouring books over a period of months, the decision is always fairly simple as I tend to wander from one book to another staying with either the same era, the same author, or the same topic. But when my reading comes to a screeching halt, as it did in November, and weeks pass without so much as a paragraph of anything other than "Mix sugar with butter and then add eggs one at a time", the jump-start to pick up a proper book is something of a dithering moment for me.
Mystery? History? Humor? Non-Fiction? Autobiography?
I have ample (read: too many) choices in each category, I'm afraid, so stepping back into literary heaven won't be easy. But it's a step I'm determined to take. Perhaps this weekend.
I just realized this morning, as I sorted through a stack of unread back copies of the New York Times Book Review, that I haven't actually picked up a book to read in nearly a month! [Ed. Note: Magazines do not count as reading, unless it happens to be Vanity Fair]
This clearly has to be remedied, pretty much immediately. After all, there are no longer any Christmas-related impediments holding me back. The knit-fest has ended, the cottage has been stripped of Christmas decorations, I have no immediate plans to bake again (perhaps ever), and the bins of ornaments, lights, and wrapping paper are back in the attic until next year. No excuse not to resume losing myself in books once more. Except of course the fatal inertia that always accompanies the heady decision of WHAT TO READ NEXT.
Now if I've been reading for awhile, uninterruptedly devouring books over a period of months, the decision is always fairly simple as I tend to wander from one book to another staying with either the same era, the same author, or the same topic. But when my reading comes to a screeching halt, as it did in November, and weeks pass without so much as a paragraph of anything other than "Mix sugar with butter and then add eggs one at a time", the jump-start to pick up a proper book is something of a dithering moment for me.
Mystery? History? Humor? Non-Fiction? Autobiography?
I have ample (read: too many) choices in each category, I'm afraid, so stepping back into literary heaven won't be easy. But it's a step I'm determined to take. Perhaps this weekend.
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