I want to talk about something that has been really upsetting me lately (and something that shouldn't upset me at all), and that is reading. You see, since my lovely husband James' birthday he has read 4 and half books. That is an average of 1.5 a week. Me on the other hand is averaging what seems like about 1.5 a year. This makes me sad. Let us delve into the complexities of my brain now for a few minutes to find out why.
I want to get something straight right here: I love reading*. I love it. I love delving into tales of another place or another world or another culture or another where ever. Because it isn't here. Not to say my life is awful by any stretch of the imagination. My life is wonderful. But maybe it is wonderful because I can escape and let my imagination run wild every now and then. What can be more healthy than exercising your most vital organ with thoughts that are fun, dangerous, wild, magical, exciting... Yes. I love reading.
So the question to pose now then is why have I taken months and months to read this one book. Is it that I am not enjoying it? Hellz no. I am certainly not one of those people who forces myself to read a book that I am not enjoying just because I think I should. There are millions of books in the world all just as worthy to be read (ok... maybe some are less worthy - I am looking at you Mills and Boon). But my point is that why should I waste my time reading one paragraph at a time of The Host, How to be Good or Wicked when I could be reading Harry Potter again. And I mean that without any sarcasm. Believe me.
So maybe it is because the book is non-fiction? Well, maybe. There is something about non-fiction that makes me read slower. I think that when I am reading about a completely fictional person or world my brain has a bigger license to run wild. I can let the stories flow over me and my brain just jumps up and down at the chance of thinking about something new. Whereas when I read non-fiction I want to get my image right. I want to be building an accurate snapshot of what really happened, so I suppose I focus more on every page.
The thing here is that finding out why I am taking so long to read this book is not my biggest worry. My worry is that I am taking so long at all. I have a large pile of books waiting to be read that my brain is itching to get to every second. But yet I am enjoying what I am reading! I don't want to abandon this book just because I am inpatient to get onto something I can read faster. What do I do?
Anyway, the point is that weird ol' me with this weird ol' brain of mine feels completely guilty about the whole thing. I feel like a failure as a self-confessed nerd that I can't even get through more than one book a month. It is funny because give me a day off work with nothing else to do and I will read a book in a few hours. I am quite happy to sit and read from 8am till 4am the next day if the book is right (thank you Harry Potter 7).
I guess I feel like I am judging myself for being a book lover but not proving it to the world by reading like a maniac. It seems like my free time has melted away into responsibility and to-do-lists. It probably hasn't, I just like being dramatic and emo in my blogs sometimes.
It is darn tootin' pickle of a situation.
*Before I go I want to tell you quickly about an embarrassing University incident. When I was deciding which module to take I talked to the tutor teaching 'adaptation' and told her that I hate reading to order because when I am rushed I can't concentrate. Anyway I ended up taking this module and before class one day I was stood outside the room reading. The tutor comes along and says - in front of the entire class - "Oh look, the girl who hates reading has a nose in her book". Everyone gave me a "You hate reading?" kind of look. I retorted "I love reading. I LOVE it. I just prefer reading books of my own choosing". I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Ack.
If anyone has any blog topics for future posts let me know in the comments.