I started reading again last week and I’m stupidexcited about it.
I’m reading books again. Holding novels in my hand, turning pages, losing myself in their worlds. I can’t understand what happened the last few years. I’d read something here and there, but mostly I'd start, set the book down, and ignore it.
That’s a cruel, wrong thing to do.
I used to read fast and had a book or three going all the time. A few years ago something happened. Perhaps it was the heart problem -–I’ll blame as much as possible on it, just you wait—mayhap it was some Guidance to take a break, maybe I got too lazy to read. The last one takes some doing. If that’s what happened, then I probably deserve official recognition for it.
I wondered on occasion what was happening. Then I’d get distracted.
I am pleased, happy, and grateful to say whatever had come over me is gone. It left one day last week and since then I haven’t been able to get enough reading. It’s all I want to do.
I’d started A Tale of Two Cities in July, got to page 82 and set it down. It was the first one I picked up and I finished it yesterday.
Shortly after I finished it I picked up Zane Grey’s Valley of Wild Horses. I’d gotten to page 18 back in the summer.
I’ve got close to five dozen books on the To Be Read tower. I am so grateful to be demolishing that tower.
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