What was the last really good thing I read?
I’m not sure I can remember.
When did I spend all day curled up with a book, ignoring the outside world, just flipping desperately through the pages until the story was done?
It’s been a while.
When did I stay up into the early hours with the bedside light burning, eager to read on?
I admit, I haven’t been reading as much as usual. If you read my monthly reading roundup, the lists have grown sparse recently. There have been months where I’ve only completed one book.
This is not like me at all.
So what’s the problem?
I don’t know exactly, but I suppose it’s down to the subtle shift in my life that has come over the last six or seven months: a demanding new job, a puppy…they’ve got me reeling.
I’m blogging less, reading less, writing hardly at all.
My other day-to-day routines have changed too: it’s harder to find the time to exercise, or do the housework.
I’ve lost a lot of the willpower I had. Now I’m content to slump on the sofa with the television and flick through Facebook and news websites on the iPad. Well, not content exactly…
I want all that stuff back, the things I used to do. But somehow I care less. I don’t have the energy to expend.
I want to read, but it feels like an effort. I’ve read some good books, but none that have gripped me and forced me onwards. I’ve taken the easy option of reading throwaway crap online; wasted hours on it when I could have been enjoying a novel.
I don’t know how I get it all back.
In my darker moments, I worry that this shift will be permanent. Apparently all it takes to build a routine is 21 days, and I’ve spent longer than that systematically dismantling mine.
But this post wasn’t meant to be another lament to lost routines. It was supposed to be about reading and how I miss it.
I’m surrounded by books, and I’m always surrounding myself with more. But I’m not involved.
All I know is, life isn’t the same without a good book, without a story.