It is truly a kind of magic that I can log onto my library’s website, enter my library card number, and a few clicks later, have a book on my PHONE. (After installing the software that enables it to be so.)
So now, I want to listen to ALL THE BOOKS. On my phone. Because I can.
I’ll have more to say about this in my review, but what it left me with was an absolute restlessness in my reading. You know what I mean: you read an awesome book that keeps you riveted to your seat, and then everything that you pick up afterwards just doesn’t compare.
That’s happened to you, right?
Such has been my reading week this week.
I hate that, because it’s usually not the book’s fault nor the author’s. It’s more just a matter of timing. In those instances, my tactic is to switch genres: if it was a fiction book that had me captivated, I choose nonfiction as my next read, and vice versa.
This time, even that wasn’t doing it. I started Gail Collins’s As Texas Goes …How the Lone Star State Hijacked the American Agenda, but the first chapters with Texas history were losing me a bit. I switched back to fiction, with Amor Towles’s Rules of Civility, and promptly put that on the back burner too. (I’m not declaring either of these as DNFs just yet; I think they are just a victim to the post-Gone Girl phenomenon I’m dealing with.)
I’m restless on the personal front, too. I’ve had one of the laziest summers of my entire life and I still don’t feel like I’ve gotten everything accomplished that I want to. My own fault, that. I’ve also been writing a lot this week – as in, my own novel. I’m a slow writer in this regard; I revise and edit as I go, which means I’m only up to Chapter 3 and approaching 5,000 decent (I think) words. I’m on deck to submit something to my writers’ group in September, plus (dare I say it?) I am allowing myself to be optimistic about a job I might possibly hear about this week, which would put an end to my lazy days of novel writing and throw me back into the world of the gainfully employed. So, I have some self-imposed pressure, in a way.
Perhaps a book with Time as its theme would be in order.
Virginia Woolf, anyone? Today finds me reading The Years, Woolf’s second-to-last novel (published in 1937) about the large, well-to-do Pargiter family. Their mother is dying, and the novel follows each of the characters through “the commonplace moments” (according to the book jacket) and the years that make up a life.
So far, this is okay. I’m ambivalent about Woolf. Loved, loved, loved Mrs. Dalloway, but was just eh about To the Lighthouse. I want to love her. I really do. I just haven’t read enough of her to make up my mind or to have enough of a solid opinion.
Time will tell. This restless reader will give Woolf (and herself) a little bit more.
copyright 2012, Melissa, The Betty and Boo Chronicles If you are reading this on a blog or website other than The Betty and Boo Chronicles or via a feedreader, this content has been stolen and used without permission.