Aliterate

I saw Rebecca Blood’s comment on reading and didn’t think much of about it–I read what I enjoy, and it so happens that some of what I read could be considered should-read material. But then I read the Globe and Mail article she referenced and realized that it’s true: I have become aliterate. I have that stack of books by my bed (and on my bookshelf, and on my coffee table) that I’ve been meaning to read, some for a couple of years, and it just keeps getting taller; like my writer friend, it’s a rare occasion when I don’t walk out of a bookstore with at least one volume. I’m reading her pre-publication novel right now which is quite good, but the 300-odd pages have languished by my bed for a week and a half now–not without a second thought, because I’ve wanted to pick it up a couple of times and I’ve promised the author feedback, but I wind up getting distracted or putting it off or not having the time or using any and all of the other excuses in the article.

It doesn’t help that my brother, who’s finished the last exam of his undergrad university career and is riding the train towards home as I type, messaged me yesterday about Life of Pi. I told him I had it on my shelf and would lend it to him, but realized later that I had no idea what he was talking about–I was going to give him The Joy of π (which is interesting, but hardly the same).

This disturbs me more than I can express. What am I doing right now? Writing about not reading, instead of picking up a book and doing something about it.

If I don’t show up here for a while, it’s partially because I’m home for Christmas and New Year’s, but with any luck, it will also be because I’m hip-deep in a pile of books that I’ve finally gotten to.