Read a book? Seriously?

I promise that I’ll read another book, and I’m pretty sure it will be sometime this year.  But beyond that, I give you no guarantees.

It’s not that I don’t have interesting things to read. Sitting on my shelves now are the recent Jonathan Franzen novel, the Keith Richards autobiography, a biography of Mickey Mantle, and the last two Jonathan Tropper novels I need to read before I’m all caught up with his oeuvre. And there is “The Girl with the…” series that is just there, waiting.

And right now, my response is, “Eh…”

I’ve always been a reader. My mom loves to tell the story of how she brought her 4½-year-old son to read to her first-graders, so books and I date back a few years. But right now, I couldn’t finish a picture book for pleasure if I tried.

This happens. I go through stretches with my nose buried in a book — sometimes more than one at a time — and then I just stop. Like that.

I still read, of course, given that I’m an editor for a living. And I love browsing bookstores — that loud sigh you heard came from me when Borders filed for bankruptcy last week. But lately I haven’t felt like doing that, either.

The same applies to writing for pleasure. This blog has been a wonderful outlet for more than a year, but it — like reading — comes in fits and starts. Five entries in five days, and then nothing for a month. It's not like I'm lacking things to write about — hell, I collect ideas like some people collect dolls (obviously I’ve seen too much “Hoarders” recently). I jot down a few notes and then…

Well, it just depends on where my brain is at the time.

The advantage to having a number of creative interests — writing, photography, music, reading, theatre — is that I can stop in on occasion and not get bored. I hope you’ll stick with me, because I’ll be back soon.

Unless I pick up a good book, that is.