I have a problem. I am a book addict. It’s not just books though. You can see all sorts of reading material strewn throughout the house: sections of the Sunday paper, New Yorker magazines. And of course, several books, both fiction and non-fiction, that are already in progress. No wonder I have issues keeping clutter at bay.
It’s not that I have reading ADD; I usually finish every book I start*. I just love to read. Library e-books sometimes help keep my word appetite in check. The local library network is phenomenal, but I’m not the only one who thinks that, so when it comes to reserving the digital version of a book, I often have to wait six months before it’s my turn. And then, by the time I get the email notification it’s finally my turn to borrow book X, I have often long forgotten about the book at hand.
Such was the case with Astonish Me by Maggie Shipstead, though the book’s appearance in my life is more serendipitous. Yesterday, I took the Vachette to the Robbins Library. After picking out a bunch of books in the children’s section, she asked me if we could go see the big globe and find the spot where her daddy was (who currently is on a work trip.) So we went to the adult fiction (as in, not-written-for-children, not porn) — she ran and I walked — lo and behold, guess what hardcover was on display, and thus, available to check out: ASTONISH ME!
So I did. And what a pleasure it is to read. Now my challenge will be not reading really late every night during Mr. Mad Cow’s absence. Solo parenting is hard. But it’s ever harder when you’ve stayed up too late the night before no matter how good the book is.
* Since becoming a mother, I am more vicious about not finishing every book I start. If the author hasn’t hooked me in the first hundred pages, then I often give up on a book. There are just so many books and so little time.