I’m astonished to report that after decades of putting reading before everything else, I have been made a (somewhat) more reluctant reader. I blame it on my internet wanderings on a shiny, sleek laptop, my interest in social media, the constant buzz of Facebook, and the flutter of Twitter. The allure of my Blackberry texts. The shift in my free time from reading fiction to psychology. All of it. And it is disturbing.
I have had three or four novels this fall that have just sat there, waiting for my attention. But the deck needed waterproofing. The oven broke, and then companionably, so did the dryer. And my gym time cuts into the hours of the day. And work demands my energy in different ways. My older eyes have a harder time with small fonts at 10:00pm. Reading began to slowly seem like effort, and watching reruns of Law and Order like mental balm. I know, I know, it’s pathetic.
Before I completely become unrecognizable to myself, I recommit myself to Pleasure Reading. I have an annual goal this year of 50 books on GoodReads.com, and though behind, I’m going to try and make it. If you count the books I start and then put down because they aren’t worth any more time, then I am still on pace. Even if one of my current books is 1,200 pages long, weighs a couple of pounds and moves along like cold molasses.
So here’s to my return to a better self. I don’t believe that all this technology in any way makes me a better, smarter, more interesting person. It just sets me adrift into the world of re-tweets, random quotes, cute photos, and unimportant status updates. Mind candy. Back to the real world of fiction in which I understand myself and others better, and gain a more whole and compassionate perspective on the human race. Yes. I’m feeling more myself already.