My days have been consumed with books. I’m speaking in the immediate sense, though, really, it’s an overarching truth in my life. Currently reading three at a time to meet deadlines on committee obligations and to keep up with volunteer reviewing lists, I am a little lonely for some old favorites. I am obligated to five more titles by next Thursday. Yes, five. Beyond that, I need to read 25 by December 1st. There’s a big, bulging bag of books in the closet that I can’t even bring myself to count right now and those, though not strictly on deadline, really need to be done, well, sooner rather than later.
However, for my own sanity, I have a few I need to read. If I could just squeeze in a couple of them before the first day of school, I would be so happy. Give me Skipping Christmas by John Grisham in August and let me read a new Luanne Rice before fall. If I could breathe in Anne Morrow Lindberg’s A Gift from the Sea before Thanksgiving, I’d be happy. After that, let everything else stand aside until I’ve read A Christmas Carol; The Angel, the Shepherd, and Walter the Christmas Dog by Dave Barry; and Debbie MacCromber’s Christmas Letters before Santa pays a call.
So many, many to read both new and old. What joy there is in a stockpile of books!