I just don’t seem to have much time to read right now. It’s frustrating, but it’s true. I work six day a week and have kids and writing projects and household stuff to do, and reading has become a luxury reserved for those rare moments when I feel like I have “spare” time. Tonight, for instance, it’s 9:45, my kids have just gone to bed and I have a small writing contract to get done, I’m supposed to write five pages of my novel, and it’s my turn to write a blog post. In reality, I figure I have about 15 minutes left before I fall asleep at my desk. Maybe ten…
But despite the fact that I don’t have much time to read them, books are strewn everywhere in my house. My favourites are usually in my bedroom, either in a precariously leaning stack beside my bed or actually IN my bed, buried somewhere under the covers.
My favourite books have always been well-loved. My definition of this is that I’m not exactly careful about keeping them pristine. They become bent and dog-eared, I open them and lay them flat, things get piled on top of them, tea gets spilled on them, they get dropped in baths.
If I feel especially attached to a book I don’t let it out of my sight until it’s been read. It bangs around in my purse by day, rattling around with the mints and lip gloss and pens. At night it’s pressed under my pillow while I sleep, or sometimes I fall asleep with it still in my hand.
If you see a book at my house that looks battered and worn, creased, and stained with red wine, it’s not a lack of respect for the author or the book. Quite the opposite. It’s the books on my shelf that look like they’ve never been cracked open that, well…probably haven’t.
Books that are on my bedside table right now:
Small Mechanics by Lorna Crozier
The Blue Light Project by Timothy Taylor
Light Lifting by Alexander MacLeod
Firestarter by Stephen King
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell ( I heart David Mitchell. Have I mentioned that before?)
Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton (This one isn’t mine…)