It's February 13. Between my own writing (which has picked up rapidly now that the research section is nearly complete) and teaching (which has picked up rapidly now that I've assigned research papers that are hardly complete), I don't think I should have changed my initial goal.
100 books. One year.
This is manageable. This will provide enjoyment. This is my escape from grading and grasping at the proverbial straw in my writing.
It's still a lofty goal, especially as I look at the one and a half inch spine of Arthur & George.
Then why do I feel a sense of letdown? Was I setting myself up for failure? The cliche of "being afraid to succeed"?
P-shaw. I didn't want to acknowledge my need to write and tried to replace it with reading. That's all.
Your check for psychological services rendered is in the mail.