It creeps up on you, the day after day after day that you haven’t picked up a book and you suddenly realise a week has gone by and you haven’t read a thing.
You come home determined that tonight you’ll make time, but you’re tired and there are other things to do. The book you’re reading doesn’t grab your attention the way you wish it would.
So you’re seduced by the call of Netflix and an early night.
A few more days go by and the lack of time spent reading is an itch that won’t go away.
You deal with it by buying another book, then feeling guilty at all the unread ones still sitting on your bookshelf, on the coffee table, the nightstand or piled up on the end of your sofa (is that just me?).
The weekend comes and you return to the book, but it hasn’t gotten any better. You consider starting something else, but worry that the first book might improve and you’ll miss something great.
You waver, unsure what to do. In the end you take the dog for a walk and go back to Netflix, but you feel bad about it. The book stares at you, unblinking.
Reading becomes the only thing you think about. But you still don’t finish the book.
There are too many distractions, too many other things to do.
You resent each and every one of them, wishing you could quit work and hibernate at home with your TBR pile.
Then one day, something clicks and you finally finish the book you’ve been struggling with. And you enjoy it.
A world of unread books opens up before you. What should you read next?
You make your choice, but you need a break in between books. You’ll start the new one tomorrow.
Or that’s what you tell yourself, until life gets in the way and the reading slump kicks back in with a vengeance…