One might read that title, and anticipate some erotic-fueled free response. But that would be silly. This post is about a book. Well, books. As a sidenote, I don’t know if I will be understood. In this writing, and in more that is yet to come. It’s weird, and I don’t really have a way to explain it, anything right now in my head. What I write might not make sense. It might sound weird, odd, completely random. You might find not a pinch of clarity in any word I’ve written. And frankly, that’s not far off from my own interpretation. But this isn’t for you. You’re just along for the ride, a strangler who hopped on my ship and held on (well, hopefully). This is for me. This is how I work things out. This is how I deal. This is me.
***(sidenote: Guilty pleasure, Camp Rock, check out that song yo!)*******
I have this strange thing that happens when it comes to books. To preface, I have always been an avid reader. You may have heard I read a lot of books. But what I said was I constantly craved a book in my hands; a day was not complete without finishing the current book on my list.
(Allow Ron Swanson to explain):
I would describe myself as being addicted to books. As a child learning to read however, I am told I despised reading. By the rules of my parents, each child of our home was required to read (for some period of time–30 minutes? an hour?) every day during the Summer. We did not have these luxuriously fancy in-car televisions/devices. We had Audiobooks, and hard copies for every trip we took. And I loved it.
Up through high school, I would sit by my closet, letting the dim light shine down, being careful not to let it be known I was still awake. All I needed was a little light; I was never able to set a book down without finishing it. That’s when I first became a night owl, because it would have been impossible to let those pages just sit there, lingering on my fingertips.
And somewhere, somewhere in those college years, I got distracted by required books, still, many lovely books, on religion, women, literature, poetry, the environment. But slowly the must-reads, the for pleasure leisure reading came to a halt. Perhaps stress drove away my longing for books, if only for a while. It returned, slowly. When it comes back fully at moments, I find myself again wolfing down a whole book at once, but still leaving a large stack in its wake.
Which about brings us back to the present. When I’m craving a book but it’s not the right time. When I am so hungry for, have such a strong craving to re-read, say, Sharp Objects. But the timing between my desire, and my effort to read just doesn’t line up right now. Like somewhere along the way I lost something. Not my love of books, my love of reading. But there’s something missing still. My drive to read is hard to find now. Before, it was an adventure, searching, finding, reading, repeat. A trip to the library meant going through the New YA’s, then meandering to the Adults. I can’t remember when these trips changed. When my excitement to find my new stack of lovers dwindled. I started working at the library, and yet surrounded by pages, my list full of books to read, that drive was missing.
Oh, how I want to read so many books right now, but there’s something missing. Like the childhood wonder is lost, that I can’t grasp that new excitement for books. I know it’s still there but at the same time it’s not. It drives me crazy. I’m so frustrated by this thing I can’t describe. It’s so weird. Maybe the timing is just off, maybe it’s the stress of life. I’ll wait. I’m waiting to continue where I left off. Pick up:
Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie
Yes Please by Amy Poehler
Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari
These are only a few on the list that I want so badly to return to. I am in a rut, a reader’s rut. I know that if I pick up a book, I’ll be back there, but it’s as if my brain keeps telling me you don’t have time to read, there’s just no time, no time,. no time…no time…no. time.
Like everything is telling me there’s no time. It’s time.
Chronicles of a Kool-aid Goddess 