I love to read. Books, that is. I don’t have a reading device or iPad or anything. I KNOW. It’s the best thing ever. I don’t have it. Get off my back already.
When I was a kid I had this series of Peanuts comics that I borrowed and then stole from my grandmother’s neighbor and I read them until they fell apart. I read and re-read Sweet Valley High, all the Judy Blumes, and all the weird terrifying novels I could find about teenage girls finding themselves in dire situations.
I’m still like that. I read anything. I re-read favorites. I totally judge a book by its cover – if it looks interesting, I’m on it. I don’t have a favorite author. I’ll read classics if I’m in the mood. I do like specific kinds of books – biographies and novels, mostly. Many books I read have some sort of love situation in them but most of them don’t have a picture of a fair maiden in a bodice with a hulking casanova holding her from behind with his hand resting on her belly, which is the perfect spot to approach me if you would like to be punched in the neck. Just ask my husband.
|He would so get a neck punch.|
About two years ago I bought a bunch of books at our local bookstore that was closing. I was so excited to read these books and thought I’d read them all within a month or two. That’s how much of a reader I am.
At least I was.
I just finished reading all of those books. Like last month. And I am just now getting around to reading the book I got for Christmas last year. It’s taking me forever – I’ve been working on it for a month, and I'm only halfway through. It’s interesting enough – the life of Cleopatra – but because it’s been taking me so long, I am starting to doubt myself as the ultimate reader, book junkie, bookworm, or whatever smarty-pants label I have been giving myself all these years.
My confession is that I guess I'm not much of a reader of literature after all. It’s hitting me hard. How can I pass the love of reading to my kids if I can’t even get through one measly book in ten months?
Maybe this has something to do with it:
Darn, you, Vogue, and your nine hundred pages of beautiful ads and articles about Paris and art and all manner of hoity-toity things. Darn you.