This Year’s Attempt

I run three days a week with two really great, really fun, really well-read women. They impress me with every conversation about the latest read and all they gleaned from the pages of some fantastic novel. Both moms, both busy, both of them have made reading a necessary part of their lives. I want to be just like them when I grow up and read something of value every day, but my reading habit is definitely at this time in its infancy-lots of growing up yet to do.

About once a year I resolve to read a book-don’t get me wrong, I want to read all the time. I can’t walk into a book store because I spend so much time just reading the book jackets of all the books I’d like to read. I’d like to read many different kinds of book; novels, history books, books about politics, books about religion, tons of books about parenting. But, at this point in my life reading is not part of the daily routine (unless I count magazine reading in the bathroom…it’s a stretch but its about all I’ve got). When I do reach for literature, my true inclination is to read the Sunday school lesson for the coming week’s discussion or the newspaper on line just so I can keep tabs on who is the current president and what the weather’s going to be like this week. But every once in a while I step outside myself and I pick up a regular book, and decide I’m going to read it.

Often, said book is a kid’s novel. Something I want to see if my kids would enjoy, something not too long, something that is full of fun and not too heavy (Aretmis Fowel is a favorite). This year, as I was taking my cub scouts on a tour of our local library, I found this book peaking out of the children’s history and reference section. A kid’s book about world history; it perfectly satisfied the guilt pangs that my yearly read should help me improve my understanding about the world and the yearning for something juvenile to page through and complete. I checked it out. 3 weeks to finish 300 pages. I was sure I could do it.

But, I didn’t. The due date came and I was about 34 pages into the bronze age when it was time to take my year’s attempt at literature back to whence it came. I did learn why we call it the bronze age, and I know the book was totally read-worthy, written by a brilliant Austrian many years ago and just recently translated into English, a really worth while endeavor. But, try as I did I just couldn’t get through it in my allotted time, and renewing the book would only have prolonged the day when the unread book went back to the library. I drove up to the library drop off bin and slid my year’s book down the chute. Another year’s attempt at reading, failed.

Next morning as we jogged along the dark neighborhood streets I asked my friends (for the thousandth time) when they ever find the time to read. “I have a block of time when the boys are at school and my daughter is having her nap. I set a time limit and read until then, after that I have to scurry around and do my chores” was the response from one. The other explained that reading was something she fit into her life every day, no matter what. She has to read. Wow.

I hope someday I have the self discipline to read instead of do laundry or leave the dishes for 15 minutes while I fit in a chapter. I would be a better writer, a more balanced person, a more complete conversationalist. But instead I try a page here and there and send unread books back to the library on their due date. Maybe next year I’ll actually finish, and my reading habit will grow just a bit. Boy, would I like that!