I’ve been writing a lot lately.
For a person who likes words, this is nothing short of heaven. For a person who loves reading words, it can start to feel a tad unbalanced. And it is a balancing act. The balance of keeping this world separate from that one. Of making time for the putting down of words, instead of the picking up of new ones. Finding yourself spending hours researching, rather than just revelling. It’s okay though. It’s a balance I have to strike. And one that I’m enjoying finding my way through.
Yet, while I can sense the balance scales settling in one corner, I can feel something new growing in another. No, growing isn’t quite right. I can feel it lurking. It’s that great, lumbering collection of book-ish guilt: the reading pile.
My reading-for-leisure has gone well beyond being just a bit behind. Right now, I’d be relieved to find only one ‘to-read’ pile in our house. I wouldn’t like to count, but there’s at least a baker’s dozen of them. And each of the stacks is building, higher and higher. I’m not sure if they’re held together with gravity or a far heavier sense of duty. A reading pile has a unique shape and feel. What you see is no ordinary stack of books. That, dear reader, is guilt and duty, neatly bound. It’s a duty to myself and a promise to every unread page.
But we’ll make it, my papery loves – one book at time. A little patience is all I ask. Come, sit. Take a number and wait. Thank you, kindly.