I just restarted my New Yorker subscription three weeks ago, and already I’m behind on my reading. By two weeks.
Around that same time I bought three books (two novels and a screenplay), and so far, I’m only halfway through one of them.
And two days ago, I went to the library to pick up a travel guidebook, and somehow I came home with two other books too, a novel and a memoir.
My nightstand pile of reading material is growing to unsafe heights:
-The New Yorker fiction issue from December that I’ve yet to finish
-A fat copy of Anna Karenina that I keep thinking I’ll read but don’t. (I’m one of the apparent few who hasn’t read this, I’ll admit it. Everyone is always talking about how great it is, but I just can’t seem to get started on it.)
-The two most recent issues of the New Yorker, an issue of Sunset, and the latest issue of Poets and Writers.
–Brokeback Mountain, Story to Screenplay (I read the story long ago, but was curious how they made a short story into a two hour movie. Also, I’ve never really looked at a screenplay and was curious about what it would be like to write one.)
–The Dissident, by Nell Freudenberger (she looks so young in her author pic on the book jacket!)
–Slow Man, by J.M. Coetzee (I haven’t read Coetzee’s work before, and I’m not sure I should have started here.)
–The Hungry Tide, Amitav Ghosh (I read Ghosh’s nonfiction/memoir In An Antique Land and loved it, so I thought I’d try his fiction.)
–Istanbul, by Orhan Pamuk. (This looks dense, but good. I’ve been wanting to read Pamuk’s work, but… well, I’ve been wanting to read a lot of things.)
My desire to read is not at all proportional to the time I actually spend reading.