I have sixty eight unread books in my possession.
Thanks LibraryThing. I knew I had a lot of books to get to, but before you I didn't know it was that many. I didn't know that I had 460 books. I didn't know my 20+ years of collecting had given me over 100 books that I can tag horror, and less than a dozen non fiction.
My library is more or less organized. Less. Less than Dewey Decimal, more than it was when half my books were on the floor. My unread are collected in six milk crates, topped with idols of geekery. Harley Quinn statutes, Platform 9 3/4 luggage tags, and even a lava lamp. My own little corner with my own little chair where I can be whatever I want to be.
So. What do I read first? Do I finally get to East of Eden, like a good English Major? The Scarlet letter? Gulliver's Travels? Treasure Island?
No.
I'm in the middle of a Star Trek the Next Generation novel, and a collection of Richard Matheson stories. I could be expanding my mind with great literary works, and I spend my time reading Harley Quinn and Ghostbuster comics.
It's not an intellectual wasteland. I've read The Sociopath Next Door. I've got The History of Scotland waiting in the wings. Yet I can't push past these literary lollipops. Sweets to rot a brain already overwhelmed with pop culture aplenty.
But why should I feel guilty? I've just finished Revival, a Lovecraft-inspired best seller from my favorite, Stephen King. I've been working on my manuscript and rehearsing for a show and working more often than not. Why shouldn't I allow myself a little rest when it comes to my literary pursuits?
I feel guilty for the mental laziness, just like my day-off laziness. Why should I rest when there's laundry and cleaning to do?
I can't always be go go go. It's hard to convince myself of that, but it's true. "I'm not a wabbit. I need some wrest." as Lily VonSthupp so famously sang.
One on, one off. That's the new policy. When I finish my Star Trek novel, it'll be on to something more hefty. Something deep and meaningful, and most importantly, NEW.
Even the silliest literary fluff is a little bit taxing when it's new. It's a stretch before a run. A warm up, a cool down, a way to keep my hand and head in the game.
I've been putting aside time to read each day. I never had to do that before. The time just happened in those inevitable dead spots of life, to borrow a phrase from Uncle Stevie. So few dead spots left. So rushed. So fast. So the time passes.
I will read these books. I will keep my mind sharp. I will enjoy the silly fluff bits in the middle. I will read and laugh and cry and furrow my brow and discuss what I find with my friends and family.
I will.
I have to.
The feeling is accurate
Thanks LibraryThing. I knew I had a lot of books to get to, but before you I didn't know it was that many. I didn't know that I had 460 books. I didn't know my 20+ years of collecting had given me over 100 books that I can tag horror, and less than a dozen non fiction.
My library is more or less organized. Less. Less than Dewey Decimal, more than it was when half my books were on the floor. My unread are collected in six milk crates, topped with idols of geekery. Harley Quinn statutes, Platform 9 3/4 luggage tags, and even a lava lamp. My own little corner with my own little chair where I can be whatever I want to be.
So. What do I read first? Do I finally get to East of Eden, like a good English Major? The Scarlet letter? Gulliver's Travels? Treasure Island?
No.
I'm in the middle of a Star Trek the Next Generation novel, and a collection of Richard Matheson stories. I could be expanding my mind with great literary works, and I spend my time reading Harley Quinn and Ghostbuster comics.
It's not an intellectual wasteland. I've read The Sociopath Next Door. I've got The History of Scotland waiting in the wings. Yet I can't push past these literary lollipops. Sweets to rot a brain already overwhelmed with pop culture aplenty.
But why should I feel guilty? I've just finished Revival, a Lovecraft-inspired best seller from my favorite, Stephen King. I've been working on my manuscript and rehearsing for a show and working more often than not. Why shouldn't I allow myself a little rest when it comes to my literary pursuits?
I feel guilty for the mental laziness, just like my day-off laziness. Why should I rest when there's laundry and cleaning to do?
I can't always be go go go. It's hard to convince myself of that, but it's true. "I'm not a wabbit. I need some wrest." as Lily VonSthupp so famously sang.
One on, one off. That's the new policy. When I finish my Star Trek novel, it'll be on to something more hefty. Something deep and meaningful, and most importantly, NEW.
Even the silliest literary fluff is a little bit taxing when it's new. It's a stretch before a run. A warm up, a cool down, a way to keep my hand and head in the game.
I've been putting aside time to read each day. I never had to do that before. The time just happened in those inevitable dead spots of life, to borrow a phrase from Uncle Stevie. So few dead spots left. So rushed. So fast. So the time passes.
I will read these books. I will keep my mind sharp. I will enjoy the silly fluff bits in the middle. I will read and laugh and cry and furrow my brow and discuss what I find with my friends and family.
I will.
I have to.
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