It’s been over a month now since I’ve read a book for pleasure.  That may be the longest I’ve gone since I learned to read when I was five years old.  I have an apartment full of books, but I can’t seem to make the time or carve out the mental space necessary to settle down and let some fiction wash over me.

When I was growing up, I was one of those kids who was never found without a book.  I could read in the car without getting sick and would often stay up way past my bedtime reading and rereading beloved books.

For the longest time, my books were split in half, the ones from the first twenty years of my life living in my parents’ garage in Portland the ones I acquired as an adult hanging out in my apartment here.  When I went home last spring to help clean out my parents’ garage, I went through all my books, brutally cutting down so that I only kept the ones that were truly precious.  I ended up sending nine boxes back to myself in Philly.  Only eight made it though, one got returned to Portland, where it’s waiting for me to resend it when I’m out there for Christmas.

I’m hoping that once I’m done with school and that particular pressure is off my brain that I’ll find time to read again.  I realize though that having chosen this path of freelance writing and editing that I’m always going to be making my brain spend its days working with words and thoughts.  Here’s hoping that come January I’ll be able to find time for books agian.