Is It Me? The Book? Or the #@*&! Pandemic?

I’m guessing I am not the only one who’s experienced a weird new inability to stay engrossed in a book. Or maybe I am? In any case, I can never quite tell if it’s me, the book, the situation. I know that the level of stress the whole pandemic is putting everyone under feels like it’s steadily eroding my higher functions, and I am not sure how to manage it. To me, falling deeply into a book is one of the best things there is, and I miss it.

Some things work: like with exercise, I guess, starting really light. I mean really light, a very frothy silliness. But that’s not foolproof. Going with something really good can help (thanks, The Glass Hotel!), but I don’t think that means it always works. Because I don’t really think it’s the book’s fault—it’s not you, Mexican Gothic, it’s me.

It’s a weird and scary feeling, how I imagine the beginning of losing any skill feels. Something like, Wait—I can’t throw a baseball anymore? (Note: I never could throw a baseball. Or football. Or anything.)

I’m wondering if something drastic is needed. A purge, a fast, a feast—something. Does anyone have any brilliant ideas?

5 thoughts on “Is It Me? The Book? Or the #@*&! Pandemic?

  1. Yes! Me too. I’ve read fewer books this year than normal, which feels weird because it seems like the kind of year I’d be reading more. I’ve started and dropped so many books. I don’t have any brilliant ideas, but I do know that I’ve had a much easier time finishing the super marshmallow fluff books I’ve picked up (like American Royals) and middle grade books (because while they often tackle some big topics, they have happy endings and tend to be about 250 pages (try Prairie Lotus!!).

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  2. It’s definitely Orange Voldemort’s fault. I mean, the Arctic Circle was burning. So we can’t read books as well for the anxiety. Duh. OV is to blame. We’d be monsters if we could read like nothing was wrong.

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