Tough Decision

I made a tough decision last night after I posted my missive for the evening and climbed into bed, threading my legs around and between the two dogs and Karl, propping my head and back up on pillows, and petting Tigger, who always hops right up into my face every evening for his “alone-time with Mommy, pet and chin scratch while she reads” ritual.

This post’s peevishness is not linked to the considerable gyrations I go through each night in order to claim even a quarter of the acreage in our queen-sized bed. Those actually make me feel surrounded by love and affection.

No, it stems from the book I’ve been reading: Fall* by Neal Stephenson.

I feel like I’ve been reading this book since Christmas. And while I am a slow reader, I’m also not a person who easily gives up on a book. I wanted to like it; I appreciated that it must’ve taken quite an effort to write. And there were parts that caught my interest. But then the other narrative would kick in and I would feel almost mind-numbingly bored. Ugh. I’d endure those parts, hoping against hope that they’d undoubtedly lead to something worthwhile. I thought I could hang in for the pay dirt.

But last night I made the tough decision. I was putting this book down. (And as I reread that last sentence, I realize it can almost be read as if I decided to take it to the vet.) It just was not serving my needs which, to be completely honest, have particularly shifted in recent weeks.

I need a distraction. I yearn to escape from reality, and revel in another story line than the one we’re living in, which is only going to become more and more like a disaster movie in the days ahead.

Delightful Discovery

I made that fateful decision last night as I put Fall* down on the floor beside my bed. “Done,” I said out loud. “I’m done with you.”

Imagine my surprise this afternoon when I walked past our bookcase (mind you, I have a stack of about five books beside my bed, so why was my glance wandering onto the bookshelf?) when my eyes immediately lit upon a title that just clicked into place: The Book of Dust*.

I pulled it out. It’s by Philip Pullman. I love the earlier series he wrote: His Dark Materials, which starts with The Golden Compass*.

I’m so excited! What a delightful discovery in this time of dystopic reality.

And before you judge me for not completing Fall, I have to tell you: I’ve read 483 pages of this sucker and I’m still not feeling compelled by it. 483 pages! And there are exactly 400 more pages in this tome. So…I feel I’ve given it more than honorable shot at winning me over.

But you know what? I – just – can’t.

We’re literally in the midst of a horrific pandemic. I’m not going to waste one more night reading a book that doesn’t have me captivated. Life’s too short.