About a month ago, my husband and I got it together, piling all our unwanted books into the car and taking them to a local school. It cleared out our guest bedroom (future nursery). Turns out we timed the donation just right—the school has decided this year is its last when it comes to the yearly book sale and donations are no longer accepted. However: we’re going this weekend. I’m both dreading and anticipating it. My husband is positively gleeful we’re going and is pulling together his list of possible buys. I just hope we don’t end up buying anything we donated.
But that would be so us.
This influx of books means we have to get it together again and start buying our new bookshelves. Both of us have been saving up money for our new-furniture venture, which includes not only bookshelves but also a bed, entryway table, nightstands, coffee table, and end tables. We’ve been living like college students for most of our time together and I think we’re finally tired of it. Last year, we upgraded our cookware (I love Calphalon). This year, it’s the rest of the apartment’s turn.
Really, though, going back to the book sale: I have no idea why I’m going. My husband, I get. His reading has been steady. Me? Not so much. My reading has taken a nosedive lately. I can half-blame the commute; when you’re walking 30 minutes or soon-to-be riding a bike for 15, you just don’t have the luxury of reading. However, in theory that frees up my time to read at home. Instead, I surf, play games, and watch Netflix or Amazon Prime.
I have got to get my mind out of the entertainment gutter.
My poor Goodreads account shows two books read this year. Two! I’m still working on a novel I started more than two weeks ago, and I’m also still wading my way through a book borrowed from my coworker. I don’t know why I’m lacking the motivation to read. When I do, I thoroughly enjoy myself. Last night, after meeting the husband for a margarita and enjoying the spring weather, I read in bed for a bit. It was glorious! With 20 pages to go, it should be finished today, but I’m worried it’ll be set aside for another week.
I’ve flirted with the idea of listening to audiobooks on the way to work, but part of the pleasure of reading for me is seeing how the words link up together on the page. I think there’s value to having some read aloud (or reading it aloud yourself). Yet the tactile nature of holding, reading a book is one I enjoy. That’s partly why I don’t like e-readers—I want to flip a page, turn back, touch the word and follow the story along with my eyes and hands. I find reading aloud works best when critiquing my own writing.
I’ll never become a Belle and walk with my nose in a book (I am clumsy enough already). But I do need to find a way to reclaim my time from the series of tubes and get back to what I love most: word, words, words.