Say What Now?

So lately I've had a really hard time reading an entire book. Despite joining two book clubs, technically three if you count my upper elementary one I am starting at work, I just couldn't find the desire to read on. The books weren't grabbing me by shoulders and pulling me in. They weren't screaming at me to open them back up when I folded their covers over their words. No. And, unfortunately, it was making me feel entirely way too guilty. I mean, I was feeling guilt over not reading books. I was still reading - blog posts, news articles, stuff for work, books to kids (my own and my work kids...). I still got up in the mornings and got my oldest off to school and youngest off to daycare, arrived at work, did my job, went home and did the "home" stuff... laundry, cooking, homework, cleaning, yard work, etc. So why in the world was I feeling guilty over NOT reading? Of all the things to feel guilty about not doing, why was this the one that was getting to me?


The past week or so I finally started trying to talk myself out of focusing on all the books sitting around that I wasn't reading. The books that were gathering dust on my shelves rather than gathering love (or dislike) from me. The constantly battery-drained e-reader lounging on top of said dust-covered books. I decided not to care (easier said than done, but I think I did fairly well). Screw the taunting cries from the books as I walked by on the way to my bedroom, or the cries of feeling unloved from the shelves at work. I hit the mute button. And you know what? I felt better. All week. And yesterday, instead of taking my tablet to lunch with me and watching the addictive Once Upon a Time (seriously, it's probably good that show isn't trying to sell me drugs... I might just partake for the first time ever... anyone know how to make VooDoo dolls? I think I need to torture the people (my Dad, for one) who suggested I watch it because I'd love it... it's been roughly two months and I've watched nearly all three seasons on Netflix... damn him... ;)), I took a book. I grabbed a YA one that's been on my TBR list for quite some time, and I started it while I ate cold pork chops and pasta salad. I read 68 pages on my lunch break (at 2 pm) and finished it last night before going to bed (at 10:53 pm). Not only did I actually want to keep reading and find out what happens, I didn't want to close it and wait. So thank you, Jennifer E. Smith, for writing such a fun story with characters I cared about.


So... color me excited. Would that be yellow? Pink? Purple? I don't know. Whatever it is, I'll take it. ;)  Now I have a book group to read by Friday. Let's hope it's as enticing.


What about you? Do you ever make yourself feel guilty about not doing something? Reading, writing, watching tv, scrapbooking? Those things, hobbies, that really aren't "essentials", but yet feel like it to you. And why do we do this to ourselves? These things are supposed to be fun. Not make us feel like we're somehow doing something wrong for not doing them.

Books That Make You Go "Meh"

So I really just suck at this whole keeping up the blog thing. I think about it a lot. I want to write more. I want to talk more. I want to interact more. But, alas, it doesn't happen. Oh well.

Let's talk books, tho. Y'wanna? I *still* am having trouble getting into books lately. I finished AG Howard's Splintered series, and loved it. But other than that? It's hit and miss and a lot of 'meh's'. I haven't LOVED much past that. Maybe I'm expecting too much when I pick up a book? I want to be hooked, to love/hate the characters, to care what happens to them.

I started reading Fiendish by Brenna Yovanoff. I LOVED LOVED LOVED the Replacements and The Space Between. Paper Valentine left me wanting, but I was REALLY hopeful for Fiendish. After 126 pages I've decided to reshelve it for later. The writing is still good. But I'm not connecting whatsoever to anyone in the story. And, it's not a spoiler since it happens right away, this girl is locked in a cellar and is being overtaken by roots for ten years. At the age of seven. Gets out at the age of seventeen... and has no problem walking and talks as if she were seventeen... as if she'd lived her life normally. There's obvious magic at work with the entirety of the novel, but for some reason that just annoyed me.

It's like I'm having trouble connecting to anything I read. Hopefully that will change. Short of not reading at all, it can only get better, right?