I have read 91 books this year.
But I’m losing my reading bug.
[Can I just add that I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to think of (and look up) another word to use for “bug” in this sentence, and I came up empty. I hate the use of “bug” here (or in any way that’s not referring to an actual insect), but I could find no suitable substitution. It’s still irritating me. Or, you know, bugging me.]
Let’s take a look at my recent reading history.
August — 16 books read
September — 7 books read
October — 2 books read
November — none yet
But October… freaking two! Two books! (Two doesn’t look like a word anymore.)
I’d love to say this sharp decrease is because I’ve been writing so much, but I haven’t been writing that much. Especially where fiction is concerned. (And I think we’ve already established that fiction is my favorite kind of writing.)
What the hell happened to me? No, I’m not busier. Truthfully, the only external factor that has changed is my [increased] anxiety/stress/worry level. Although, technically speaking , that’s not an external factor. That’s an internal factor. The external factors are all the things in my life that are going to shit around me. But usually, increased anxiety would make me read more. To escape. I’m wondering if this latest extended bout is so huge that it’s not even allowing me to escape.
What the fuck?
I don’t like this.
Several of my favorite authors dropped new books over the last few weeks, but I’m still not reading enough. The sex god pictured below, right, is on one of the covers. What the hell is wrong with me??
• • • • •
I’m sorry I haven’t read your book, Mr. Right. And don’t worry, Mr. Left. I haven’t forgotten about you.
p.s. — I am currently reading three books. Not that I’m actively reading them of late, but I’m in the middle of three books. I never do that. I’m usually a one-until-I’m-done-and-then-on-to-the-next kind of reader. Something is going on in my head and I don’t think I like it.