...that this post is being written with nervous energy.
Anyway, I think I will write on a more sedate matter - a painful truth that I have had to reconcile with, in 2020. I have read really, really little. Most of my reading has been for work and even in that, a lot of my reading has involved emails. This is not a happy state to be.
So I am trying to finish reading Nell Zink's 'The Wallcreeper' which I have been trying to read for many months now. But after a long time, I am making some progress. Painfully slow but as a bumper sticker with a doozy turtle had put it, "Forward is forward."
I recently made a list of all the unopened, unread, almost-new books that are stacked around me and I intend to get through those. I do not want to be the kind of writer who writes more than she reads. Because reading is listening. And that is anyway a dying art nowadays.
Also, there is likely to be a shift in residence next year sometime. Maybe between cities. And that brings with it it's own set of to-do lists.
It's funny. This year, I had fallen so ill in the middle that I didn't think I would survive the year. I though I would die just before or around Christmas. But I haven't. Of course, there are still a few days left so anything might happen. But in case it doesn't, I have one resolution in place - to read more. And I have the books to back up that intention. But in case I do die (hee hee! 'do die' - sounds funny), I would like to be cremated with my books so I will have something to read on the way up. I have no reason to think why the way should be 'up' but well, one lives in hope. Maybe I could read the dead authors so that when I do reach that special place, I'll find them there and discuss the stories with them and also diss the movie remakes.
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