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| Wall of books from "before" house: many of these are still in boxes . . . |
You’d think, considering how many books I have, I would spend more time reading for pleasure. I tell myself I will. I have a whole stack of books all picked out. (Well, several stacks.) Short stories, new novels, research for a writing project, books on the craft of writing, poetry, natural history. But somehow, it doesn’t happen. At least, not often enough.
I explain it’s because I read for a living. Right now, I’m editing a manuscript about Charles Mingus and proofreading a book called Land of the Open Graves about people crossing the border from Mexico into the United States across the Sonoran Desert. I’m switching off, because proofreading is less taxing than editing. I still have to pay attention, but I don’t have to worry whether the language can be improved, just whether it’s correct. So this evening, yes, I am reading.
When I do work-work and I feel moved to read for pleasure, I invariably pick up a shlocky mystery. Pure escapist nonsense. Though this proofread is giving me more than enough death. Real, tragic death.
And I have a deadline: in twelve days I’m getting on a plane, and these jobs have to be done. So: no pleasure reading for me until that happens. And then—well, I typically don't get much reading done when I travel, though I will (optimistically) take my Kindle.
But once I get back home? Yeah, I'm going to put "read for pleasure" on my list. And then, do it.
1 comment:
I used to read all the time, but now that I'm writing all the time, when I take a break, I want something other than words. So... my stacks are growing and growing and sprouting baby stacks. But this past weekend, I wasn't writing and I started each day reading. And oh yes, I remember why I love it so...
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