There are more books waiting to be read than I am happy with, January.
When I’ve got writing projects, I have a hard time focusing, even though I can only write a couple hours each day, if that. I struggled at the beginning of this quarantine time to have brainspace for reading, then that went away, but it is back now. I wonder sometimes if I have ADD. I do.
I’m in the middle of 45 different conversations with people, that are all in my head. The real number there is maybe 5. But still, that is plenty.
And there is a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos over there that is calling for me, even though my teenager and I just feasted on some lovely scrambled eggs.
The coffee is weak today and I have no one to blame.
I spent a lot of time in class last week thinking about personal integrity. How to live within one’s own sense of that. Having standards, and the like. I think sometimes I confuse being non-judgemental with giving wide and fast permissions to any kind of treatment of myself.
For instance, I have dated all kinds of people. Tall, skinny, tubby, handsome, not especially handsome. I don’t judge a man by the size of his penis, or his belly. it is character, compatibility, fun.
And in that ‘remaining nonjudgmental’, I can do too much compromising, and I get out of line with my integrity. I want to be treated a certain way, and how far will I let that go before my whole body reacts like a coo-coo bird, shutting the door with a clap?
Integrity. How do I line up with my own standards? What the hell are my own standards? I know I have a lot of fear about a lot of things. (i understand vaguery very well, see?) I cannot let that run the race.
But lets get back to books, see? Because it is another place I am out of alignment. The books are piling and I am not reading. Let me show you what I’m trying to read, and what is waiting for me, and what i am excited to investigate, while I percolate on my ideas about my own integrity.
OK! GO! always and forevermore, be in love with OK! GO!. (together in the chrysalis.)
but okay, here we go.
- The Invisible Life of Addie Larue. VE Schwab. This one I have started and its rich with possibility. Addie made a deal with a devil to escape a trap of a marriage, and now she’s just about immortal, but no one can remember her beyond a few minutes. Imagine that.
- Boule de Suif, Guy de Maupassant. My father-in-law brought this over to me when I wasn’t terrified of killing him and wanted me to read a particular story. I can’t remember which one now so I’ve got to read the whole thing. Its a series of short stories, and the copy i have is an old red-covered thing with beautiful endpapers and I’m vaguely in love with just holding it, and telling people i’m reading Maupassant.
- To Night Owl from Dogfish. Goldberg-Sloan and Wolitzer. A series of letters back and forth from two girls whose dad’s are getting married. YA, I think. Haven’t started it because brain fog, nut house. But! My friend Laura who is a reading maniac, and also writes a mean and fantastic review has recommended it and so I’m awaiting its pickup with baited breath.
- Waiting for a Star to Fall. Kerry Clare. My god, i shame myself. I still haven’t read it. I shame myself. But I know how much I like her writing, so I know some of what awaits me. For good goddamn, kate, get on it.
- And last but not least, The Adult Years, by Frederic Hudson. Sigh. This is for my coaching class, and my choice to read, and I’ve started it, and I will appreciate it once I get into it, but for now, it just sits there. waiting for me to adult, i think.
Guys, thats just the pile i want to get to first. How can I call myself a reader if I am not, in fact, reading?