I’m pretty sure I’ve been the victim of some sort of literary trauma. A literary lobotomy maybe? I mentioned a few months ago about last year just being the Year I Didn’t Read. According to my Goodreads 2012 bookshelf, I read a whopping 18 books that year. That’s pathetic.
I made a concerted effort to read this year (okay, I tried) and I’ve been frustrated by the results. It’s December and I’ve read 9 books. I can’t believe that’s even possible — the December thing, and the 9 books thing.
I’ve always been the reads-a-new-book-every-3-days kind of girl. But I think I’ve started about 25 books this year that I just never finished. They’re piled up around my room with little ribbons/receipts/dog-ears about 50 pages in. I get bored or I get distracted and by the time I think to go back to them I’ve forgotten the story. And I don’t feel like re-starting.
What do I do? I’m actually writing this because I just finished book #9 of 2013 this morning. I’m sure my roommate is having some sort of fit somewhere because I read it on my Kindle (which she refers to as my “fakebook”). I am in crisis mode. I can’t finish this year having only read 9 books. There are 29 more days — I’ve got to try to read 10 books so I at least do better than I did last year. More importantly, I’ve got to find my love of literature. Apparently it’s been chased down a dark alley or abandoned somewhere, which I feel bad about. The good thing is, I am going to try to save it.
Emilie Bee 