i can’t seem to pick up my nook. or my kindle app. or a paperback. or a hardcover. i’ve been listening to old favourites on my audible app instead of reading any of the dozen books i’m supposed to review. or the over 100 books that i have on the handy “own but haven’t read” shelf. or any of the over 600 books currently on the “want to read” shelf (which, i guess, technically is only over 500 because i have the former shelved on the latter as well).
i can’t pick up a book. i’m afraid of what’s inside of it. i’m afraid that i’ll be soaring along on the wings of the story and suddenly fall to earth as a character gets unexpectedly and viciously sexually assaulted. i’m afraid that i’ll be floating along on the updraft of an amazing character arc and suddenly find myself in the midst of a savage storm as the story i was reading turns into something completely and unmercifully different.
so i’m playing it safe. i’m revisiting old friends who do the same things every time i visit them. i’m listening to stories i’ve listened to a dozen times before knowing that nothing evil is suddenly going to pop out in the middle of the chapter; well, nothing evil that i wasn’t already expecting, that is. and in the meantime, i keep adding things to my “want to read” shelf and my “need to review” shelf. and i keep wondering, was it too many bad books in a row or have i actually hit the point where i don’t want to read any more?
and that’s a very frightening question to be asking.