For months after Ezra was born, I could not finish a book. Actually, I couldn’t even start a book. The thought of reading a book was oppressive and overwhelming.
In those early days, I watched a ton of TV while we nursed day and night. Netflix Instant Watch hooked me up with two of my favorite sets of people: out-of-work Veronica Mars cast members and British Detectives. We got cable so we could watch the new season of Mad Men, and i gorged on reruns of Project Runway and Top Chef.
But eventually, I started to want to read something longer than a New Yorker article again, and I just couldn’t.
So I started an intensive reading recovery program for myself, and I managed to get through a few books:
But the jumpstart didn’t convert, as I hoped it would, into a renewed ability to be able to just pick up a book and finish it. A shelf full of promising titles recommended by friends and my mom is gathering dust. I used to love small character study novels, family dramas, and books about relationships (in addition to British detective novels). Now, at least for a little while longer, I appear to only like various kinds of thrillers and the occasional epic romance.
So, I’m giving in. It’s going to be all detectives and spies and murderers and super hot vampire lovers over here for a while.
Any suggestions for my next trip to the library?
(Levi, I’ve already starting going through Sarah Weinman’s awesome blog.)