Do you ever finish one book, think that you know exactly what you’re going to read next, only to pick that book up and immediately toss it aside, because you’re just not in the mood? I think you readers know what I’m talking about. I know it happens to me every now and again, and that it happens to some of my family and friends too. That recently happened after I spent an intense two and a half days reading “The Lost City of Z.” I literally sat down on my back porch, intending to read only a few chapters, and when I got up 6 hours later realized that I was more than halfway through the book. It was such an intense and well-written book, the story was captivating, and it was historical without being boring. I was practically glued to the book, staying up well past midnight on a work night to try and finish just a few more pages. And then I was done. I had finished the book and felt so satisfied, and went to pick up the next book to read, only to inexplicably hit a reading brick wall.
Anyone who comes into our home can tell you that between Patrick and I we easily have at least 300 unread books…..add on to that figure the 25 books that I easily have on my Nook and we’re talking pretty serious numbers here. My nightstand has a stack of books so high that they precariously lurch to one side and I am constantly wondering if THIS will be the night that I am awakened in the middle of the night when one of the pugs knocks them over. (Side note: as write this post, I realize that tonight will most likely be that night. And since we just got back from seeing The Girl Who Played With Fire, I’ll probably also wet myself when I wake up, assuming we have a Swedish intruder.)
And yet more often than not, as I come to the end of one book, and think that I have the next one all lined up, I pick the new book up only to be disappointed with it. It is too heavy a subject, too light, too fictional, too non-fictional, too irritating, what have you…for whatever reason, I cannot get invested in this book that just hours before I was clamoring to read.
I’ve tried to figure out what makes this so — how can it be that I no longer want to read a book that was screaming out to me, begging to be read? I have yet to figure it out. Eventually I almost always end up reading that book, but sometimes, it can be so much later than intended that I’m hauling around a hardcover copy of a book that everyone else is reading in mass market paperwork. Curses! My one comforting thought is that at least I always apologize to those individual, offending tomes, and that I eventually get around to reading them…..