When I was a kid, nothing on earth or in heaven could keep me from reading. I was the kid reading under the desk instead of listening in class -- ironically, the kid I now have to correct, though I feel her pain.
College, though, brought upon me the same ill as so many other readers: the high volume of required reading took some of the joy out and simultaneously gave me less time for leisure reading. The first year of teaching didn't give me space to work on that, and I spent most of last year laboring through One Hundred Years of Solitude, a book I loved but couldn't plow through and yet I refused to read anything else at the same time.
Since August, though, I've started plowing through again. And it has been wonderful. It's like being reunited with a dear old friend, except this friend is an addiction. I've gotten back to the point where I have to be reading, and when I'm doing anything else, I'm thinking about my current volume and when I'll be able to read again.
There's not much point to this, except to note a curious side effect: the impulse to write has also been making a comeback. Mostly in handwritten notes and ponderings in margins and notebooks, but this might bode well for this neglected old blog. I know -- I've said it before. I've left you hanging. I'm not making any promises just observations.
Now, off to battle this recent bout of insomnia with a cup of tea and a book...