Like most avid readers, I have quite an extensive "to-read" list. It currently sits at about 250 books, and those are just the ones I've actually made a note of. In reality the list is probably endless. There's a lot of non-fiction, but also a lot of novels that have caught my eye. I currently have 22 of these "to-read" books out from the library sitting on the bookshelf behind me.
While I'm eager to read all of these books, I am of course, also trying to read through a list of 100 novels. Which presents me with the most difficult part of this three and a half year odyssey; there are books I'm not that keen to read.
My current book, The Man Who Loved Children is one such book. I'm not finding it very interesting or entertaining and reading it is more of a chore than a pleasant diversion. And this isn't why one usually reads a book.
When I look back at the previous 64 books I've read from the list, there are so many I truly enjoyed, and am very happy I read. Most of them are also books I wouldn't have read if I wasn't trying to read through this list. But the flip side is the books I am not thankful I've read.
Maybe I shouldn't say that, maybe a better statement would be the books I've read when I could have been reading something I really wanted to. It's sort of like a textbook in University; I learned something from having read them, but they often wouldn't have been something I'd have chosen given, my druthers.
To make matters worse, I'm on a incredible long dry spell right now, having read a few book in a row that would fit into this category. This leaves me shirking my duties of reading the list. I long for the days when I couldn't wait for a spare moment, to dive into my book.
Of course if I don't ever finish The Man Who Loved Children, I won't be able to get to number 66, and so on. So it goes.