Bookish

As you may or may not know, I normally indulge in a book challenge on the Good Reads website.

Each year I set myself a goal of reading 100 books over twelve months and, generally, do alright at it.

For the past couple of years, though, I have been shite. For some reason, 2016 became the year I stopped reading as much as normal, and this year has just been the year I have stopped reading full stop. Part of that, though, is down to the fact that I’m no longer spending a couple of hours a day – at least – travelling to and from my place of employment.  I think I read twelve books in 2017. Twelve. That’s just terrible.

I’m missing out.

As I was browsing shelves pre-Christmas I spotted a new Lee Child novel which I haven’t read. Normally I’d have snapped it up on release day, via Kindle, and celebrated by tucking right into the book as son as possible. But I’m not just one behind, it turns out – there’s one from last year I’ve missed out on.

And my conquest of the entire Clive Cussler back-catalogue has ground to a half. I have the books, they just sit unread. But he (well, he and his other writer) churns out books at a rate that is only beaten into submission, loaded into an ambulance and pronounced dead on arrival by James Patterson who more-or-less releases a book each and every time he goes to the toilet.

I have loads of books to catch up on. And loads of books still to read that I have had for ages. And loads more books that I will be wanting to read when they’re released. And just books in general. I feel that I need to spend some quality time enjoying the fictional realms contained within the pages of these tomes. It has been too long.

So the best way to do that is to set myself a Good Reads challenge for next year. And, obviously, the sensible thing to do would be to choose a lower number of books to read and ease back into the whole thing. You know, like I’ve been on long-term sick and need to get my head around how the working day is structured.

But where’s the fun and/or crushing pressure of that? Where’s the fun if I’ve not only got an allotted 3.65 days to read one book, regardless of thickness or print size?

Exactly.

One hundred books. Next year. Bosh.

We’re back, baby.