I’ve always loved to read, but there are times I just can’t bring myself to pick
up a book. Suffering overwhelming grief, experiencing mind-numbing fatigue,
and finishing an exceptionally well-written book have all, at one time or anoth-
er, contributed to a reading lull. I’ve had a bit of trouble picking up a book since
finishing The Dovekeepers. This made me think about other books that have
stopped me in my reading tracks*: Cutting for Stone, The Night Circus, A Prayer
for Owen Meany, among others, I’m sure.
Occasionally there are times I stop reading a particularly good passage just to
relish the image or writing. This happens frequently when I read Barbara King-
solver. But that’s pleasurable. I truly do savor good books. I get lost in them. I
think about them. I want characters to move into my home. Some stories I just
don’t want to end. When the especially good ones do, I sulk. I want more of the
same, not something new.
Perhaps I’ve been over-reading, a concept I’ve never really considered until now.
Is it possible to read too much? I hope not, but I am satiated from my last read,
and I’ve been reluctant to start anything new. Fortunately, this usually doesn’t
last long.
When I can’t read, no matter what the reason, I feel unmoored. The great thing
about books, though, is that I know there are others certain to stop me yet again.
I can’t wait.
*This is obviously taking that end-of-a-good-book feeling to the extreme.
The Blue Page Special 
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