Confession: I love books.
Clarification: I love the way new books look on my bookshelf, my bedside table, and hovering around my toilet. I love the rare times I actually sit down with a book to read; and I love the even rarer occasions I manage to finish one.
Truth: I love the idea of being someone who reads regularly.
There was a time that I lived this idea. Starting around my sixth birthday I was a hungry and consistent reader. I did not discriminate. My completed books included the more sophisticated youthful literature, such as Tuck Everlasting and The Giver, as well as the more trashy options available to me, such as several V.C. Andrews novels (I’ll admit it). I was one of those irritating sixth graders who had to ask for extra sheets of reading logs in which to record all my recent reading adventures.
Somewhere around the time I started brooding in adolescent despair, obsessing over betrayals and zits, I stopped reading. This is also the time I stopped practicing my scales and instead spent a lot of time writing endless lists of what I should accomplish. And then I wrote more lists. And more. I got very good at planning as soon as I stopped reading and practicing.
In recent years I have managed to read more and make fewer lists. The magic of my preadolescent reading marathons has yet to reemerge, but there is progress being made. I have started several books. Finished some. Audiobooks have become a staple in my life – though I shy from calling that activity reading. Ultimatums have entered my life of good intentions, such as: “Do not even consider buying one book until you have read twenty you already own.” I am embarrassed to admit how short-lived that ambition was.
Today I managed to walk around a Barnes and Noble for over an hour and not buy a thing. This is truly remarkable for me, as I have had an unfortunate habit in the past of placating my guilt over not reading by purchasing more and more new fabulous books and placing them with great respect and show around my living spaces. This debt-producing habit has created a lovely (and illusory) self-image of being extremely well read. Sadly, the mere presence of great literature has not elevated me as much as I had hoped.
Here it is a new decade. Empty resolutions abound. Even so, I am determined to find my way back to the excitement I once experienced through literature. As I am currently barely employed, it appears to be the perfect opportunity to raid my beautiful (ahem barely touched) bookshelf and embark upon… a new chapter in my life. Off I go.
Being well read and well bred are not nearly as interesting as being well bed. Being well bed does not necessitate breeding or reading, though it could be said to inevitably lead to both of these. While I also fantasize about being better read, in the end, there are only so many hours in a day, and bedding is simply a higher priority. When I am older and colder I will read better. As for breeding... well... I tell myself that in the end a strong constitution is better than strong institution, for there are plenty who belong that long for longer, faster, harder rhythm and soul.
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