It’s February 22.  I’ve only read SIX books this year. According to my very rude Goodreads account, I’m “Four books behind schedule.”  I don’t need your attitude, Goodreads. I’m aware of my shortcomings.

Last year I started a new job as a school librarian.  I remember hearing during library school that I wouldn’t have the time or energy to read once I was gainfully employed in my chosen field.  And then I got a job at the public library and laughed off the forewarning. No time to read? Ha! I had so much time to read. I read at work, I read a home, I read everything I could get my eager little hands on.

And then my dream job opened up, and I applied and I interviewed and I got it and life changed very rapidly.

Since September, my life has become an absolute whirlwind. 75 percent of my time is spent at school, doing things for school, or worrying and wondering what I should be doing for school and whether what I’m doing is enough.  The other 25 percent of the time I spend watching my stories, sleeping, spending whatever odd hours I can find with my husband and friends, and playing mindless games on my phone (Cookie Jam is just short of being an obsession at this point).  I used to spend all that spare time with a book in my hand. And I still do have down time–I’m using it to write this post (and catch up on The Walking Dead).  So what the eff is going on?

Reading is my thing. Whenever you fill out those questionnaires that ask for your hobbies, I’m always a little stressed because the only thing I have to write down is “reading”. And now? I feel like I don’t even have that.  And suddenly that warning about “no time for reading” is coming back to haunt me.

I got some good reading done during the fabulous #24in48, and I read my book for book club, and I’ve been lovingly re-listening to The Magicians series (I’ll take my invite to Brakebills or a 7-pointed star any day now, thanks).  And 6 books in two months is more than some people read in twice that time, or even in whole years.

But I feel like I’m failing.  I’ve got an intimidating stack of books glaring at my from the card catalog table next to our television (yes, I have a card catalog sitting on a table next to the television). I’ve got a new Nook that I adore with at least 6 books on it (library and purchased) that all sound amazing, yet I can’t open up to any of the pages. I just had nine days off of work. NINE days. Do you know how many books I read? ZERO. How many pages? Also zero. Ugh.

So here I sit, whining on the interwebs about my lack of reading motivation while I continue to not read. I’m hoping that by admitting it to the world (wide web), I’ll find some burning desire to prove my self wrong, to jump back into this competition I have with myself to read as much as I can. Whether I have to force myself to crack open a book or not, I know that (hope that) I will find myself lost in the magic of the written word again very soon.  Cheers to trying!  (^^sneaking some reading–and chocolate–after lunch at my desk)