But now that infant is six, and has learned to read, and all my reading time has become his reading time. It is delightful. And awful. I try to fit in some personal reading before bed, I average about 42 seconds. However, I have read a lot of Cleary, and Dahl, and found Fortunately The Milk to be a most delightful treasure (but could I ask that the mother be the fun one just once. Please.)
I also decided to join a bookclub, and I must say I'm fortunate that they are a pretty laid back group of ladies, but enough with the craptastic romances. I'm the kind of person who feels like if I'm going to be there I have to read the book no matter how painful, and thus the majority of my minority's free reading is being sucked up by things I know I'm going to hate before I even start. This is a serious self-induced mojo wrecker. And what kills me is that there are great romances out there but this group tends to like stuff on the cheap. On the cheap lit isn't really my thing apparently.
So where have I been? Here. Always here. But decidedly uninspired and not self-directed in my reading selections, and thus not writing. Which is just a big pile of ugh.
