As my aunties used to say: Uff da.
My reading is current; however, my updates are not. Right now I'm going through a phase where I don't have anything nice to say, about anything, so I'm heeding mother's advice and not saying anything at all. Very uncritic-like. I'll get over it in about 12 hours.
As you may remember, dear reader, my heaven would be filled with books. All I would do is read. This project was to wrap a piece of death-induced imagery and suck it through a year-long straw, like a thick chocolate malt.
Only now I want to write. I miss it. Characters wake me up mid-giggle, send me scrambling for a piece of paper to scribble on. Snippets of dialogue wind around my fingers.
Oh, but time and promises interfere. And a heavy sleep schedule. I wish I could find some external motivation to keep on reading, meet the pace. Like when the principal promises to shave his head if the students raise $5,000 for the new computer lab. Or perhaps never hearing about another celebrity pregnancy/wedding/birth for the rest of the year. It's not like reading 150 books will cure cancer or inject George W. with brain matter.
I never thought I would say that this is difficult.
I hope I don't ever say that this turns me off reading.
I hope I am able to write again. Someday.