I wander around the darkened room, my eyes avoiding the overflowing bookshelf. Two shelves are taken up with brand new books, I have a TBR list that is a mile long and the pile on my bedside table hasn’t changed in a fortnight.
I tried really hard to read.
I managed to read most of one book, only to fall at the final hurdle, the climax of the book, the last big push.
I tried to read a classic, The Picture of Dorian Grey. I made it to 20%.
A new book arrived on my Kindle, one I had waited for anxiously, for weeks, months. Fake by C.L. Stone. I made it to 50% on this one.
I picked up The Help by Kathryn Stockett last night and made it to chapter six. Today it just looks too big, too thick.
Someone told me to try reading a book I already read. I ended up skipping to my favourite scenes, and when I finished the book in half an hour, I was ecstatic! Until I realised that I had actually only read a quarter of the book, having skipped over the whole middle section.
I am fighting a demon, an affliction that hits most readers at one point or another. The Book Slump. It is an overweight, hairy, and ugly monster, making you hate something you love. You end up wasting time by watching Call the Midwife on repeat, and then feeling horribly guilty. All these lovely new books, all the time and no will.
The garlic to this vampire? Time. The one thing that is always running out. On a day when you have six deadlines, five bills to pay, no food in the house, an important meeting at eight in the morning and no clean underwear, your love of reading will come back just in time for you to fall into a book world that you physically cannot pull yourself from for a week.
Happy Reading Friends!
E. St. C.