What happens in our busy lives that means we don't make time to read? Over the past several years I find myself reading less and less. Until a few years ago, I had belonged to a book group for over twenty years, but gave it away because I just wasn't reading the books. Not because I didn't want to. But usually just because I hadn't made the time.
Then my favourite sister invited me to join Goodreads. I did, thinking that it would give me a little incentive to read more. It hasn't. Not really.
I don't even have much to say when friends ask me what I've been reading lately.
Now, just to be clear, I love reading. I love language. I love a good tale. I have a great collection of as yet unread books.
So what is it?
When Bec and Bron suggested a bloggy sort of book club, I thought that maybe if I jumped in, I might just start reading again, as avidly as I once did. For me, I have to allocate reading time - bedtime reading just doesn't cut it any more. So, while I have this eclectic little collection on my bedside table, I rarely get through a couple of pages before dropping off...zzzz...
So I'm going to join my friends and talk about what I'm reading each month, here in blogland.
I have just finished a delightful little story by Paul Auster (a favourite author of mine, as he writes tales set in one of my favourite cities, New York). Timbuktu is a quirky little tale told about Mr Bones. Well, told by Mr Bones. The dog. And I loved it.
But in August, I am going to read Margaret Drabble's The Garrick Year. I'll report back later.