In case I’ve never mentioned it, I have a fetish for organization. Some might even diagnose call it a little obsessive-compulsive. You’re probably feeling a little kinship with me right about now, but I can safely assure you that until you have sat down with a notebook and, working with your five-year average of annual books-read, made an actual list of books you intend for the entire upcoming year - in order - you are nowhere near my level of organizational sickness. That’s right. An actual list of 135 books that I intended to read in a specific order over a twelve month period.
What the f%@k was that about?
Because here’s the thing: I can make book lists until hell freezes over. But I will never, ever, ever possess the ability to make it past #2 on the list. Because as much as my mind screams for organization, the sad fact is that I am a moody reader. And if #3 on my reading list doesn’t suit my particular mood, thump, back in the pile it goes as I will proceed to dig around for something that does feel right. Before I know it my nice, organized list is shot to hell when I find myself reading books that weren’t even on the damned list to begin with and oh for gawd’s sake it’s all out of order, now what do I do…..crap, just buy a new notebook and start a new list.
Shampoo, rinse, and repeat.
I only share this book angst with you this lovely Monday morn because I opened my calendar to see that I was supposed to be sharing a review of a new, upcoming release novel with you today. And I would have. Really, I would.
It was on my list to read.
It was #3. crap.