Sometime around January 1, my brain formulated a New Year’s resolution of sorts that would involve myself reading one book per week. At first thought, this seemed like a fantastic idea. I had recently read something from Junot Diaz, about him reading one book per week and how much it helped him to grow as a writer. Then, I read something that made the declaration that even if you are reading, you are writing - reading is merely research for writing. I would agree.
It is now March 3, some number of weeks in to the New Year that I am a bit too lazy to look up. I have read a number of books. Up until about two weeks ago, I was reading one book per week. Now, my motivation to read one book per week is waning and I find myself making compromises. Maybe, I keep thinking, if I just read four books per month, I can be a bit lazy some weeks and then force myself to cram during others.
This unmotivated nature may be motivated by the fact that some of the last few books I forced myself to read were absolutely terrible and I mean, really freaking bad. I trudged through the tragedy that is On Such a Full Sea and then pushed myself to read something called Sociopaths in Love. Both left me wondering how such things get published and then receive positive reviews on Amazon. To each their own, though.
Sadly, I can’t allow myself to blame the bad books for my unwillingness to complete my New Year’s resolution - that I should probably be calling a goal instead. What I should really be doing is blaming my ability to choose books since my choices haven’t amounted to much pleasure since January 1. I will go back to the drawing board, back to my Amazon wish list and maybe even back to a few novel favorites to drum up the courage to finish. And then, I will read. I will read on.