I’ve discussed before my issue with — okay, addiction to — books. I shouldn’t be proud when I leave a bookstore (which I only entered to kill time) with only two books and The New Yorker. I shouldn’t rejoice when I discover a Borders gift card that I bought for someone else and never gifted. Someone didn’t get a Christmas present this year; it’s not right I spend it on myself. And yet …
I didn’t finish any book in January. Mainly because I’m in the middle of Margaret George’s The Memoirs of Cleopatra. The book is 976 pages and, according to Amazon, weighs over 3 pounds. It’s taking me a little bit to get through this one. The most fabulous Christmas present Xbox slowed reading down, too. I was also determined to finish Cleopatra before continuing to work my way through the to-read pile.
Then February happened. I purchased the aforementioned two books and magazine. Somehow I managed to put off opening the books. In a strange coincidence, I started rewatching Black Sheep Squadron, which led me to want to learn more.
I swear, books, movies, random mentions of tangents are rabbit holes from which I have to fight to emerge. Seeing Sondheim’s Assassins had me reading biographies and original letters and diaries of John Wilkes Booth for months and still planning a trip to Ford’s Theater.
Anyway, Black Sheep Squadron was based on Greg Boyington’s autobiography, Baa Baa Black Sheep. Guess what the Chester County Library System happened to have? Guess what I had them ship to the Exton branch?
But in the 3 days before I got to Exton to pick it up (along with another book on hold and one I picked up just because, dude, I was in a library!), I opened The Reliable Wife, which I’d gotten through Powell’s Indiespensible program because I couldn’t fall asleep and Cleopatra was a little to heavy to prop up in bed. The next day, I opened Animal, Vegetable, Mineral because I needed a quick break at work and had finished The New Yorker and didn’t want to surf the Internet.
Last night, I started Black Sheep. Cleopatra was in the cocktail table in front of me. Reliable Wife was down the hall. Why? Why did I start a fourth book?! And that’s not counting the two or three books that I think I started but have forgotten about. They’re underneath Reliable Wife in the bedroom. What is wrong with me?
And why does this wrongness feel right?
Sigh. I’m hoping to finish at least one of the four books this weekend. At the very least, I don’t want to start a fifth.