Given the amount of work I'm doing (emotionally, I think, as much as physically) in cleaning out my parents' house, it's not very surprising that I haven't been able to focus much on reading. I can't find anything that sticks to me, you know?
I keep picking up book after book, reading a chapter or two, and letting it go. Nothing suits. Nonfiction makes me think too hard. And with fiction? Horror is inappropriate at this time. Stephen King's Gunslinger series is too bleak. The print in The House of the Seven Gables is too tiny. (Whine, whine.) I own no new Heyer books to divert me, and I've read all the ones in the local library. I finally settled on the 5th book in Jan Karon's Mitford series, because they are easy and charming. It's not completely soothing me, but it has a chance.
So, I have nothing to report. For the first time in my life I am not really reading anything.
That's disturbing.
But it'll change, I'm sure. I mean, no one just turns into a nonreader.
Do they?
