During my employment-free summer, I had all the time in the world to read. Why yes I’ll read that 600 page tome. My pleasure. I’ll just stack it next to a novella and all will be right with the world. I was casual and carefree. Even my reviews felt low pressure and unreasonably upbeat. I didn’t know then how good I had it. (Ok, maybe I kind of knew.)

Two weeks into my new job and I have read fifty pages. That’s it. A sad Obama ’08 bookmark sticks out of my current novel – just barely past the cover – as a judgment on my new life. My life where reading takes a backseat to eating, staring at the computer, playing with the dog, watching TV, staring at the TV and sleeping.

I want to fix this but I know better than to declare that I will. Not yet. I’m not yet sure how I’ll get back to my dear books. My brain needs them. My imagination misses them. Yet I can’t commit. I keep hoping they will find space in my day. At lunch perhaps. Maybe if I let one come to work with me, if I let it stare at me all day, maybe then I will read instead of trolling the internet when I have a few minutes to kill at the end of the day.

Maybe.

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