My Nanna in law used to keep a notebook in which she wrote down every book she read. I thought at the time it was a good idea, but I didn’t start doing it myself until about eight years ago.
I give the books I read marks out of ten – a ten usually means one I’ll keep to read again. Some books get a DNF – did not finish. It’s a good way to remember the names of writers you’ve enjoyed too – and those you haven’t.
There are also lists in my notebook of books written by my favourite authors, so I can cross them off as I go through them.
Anyway, I usually read around 50 books a year, give or take a few. Last night I totted up how many I’d read and I was truly shocked. No really, I was! I even rubbed the pages thinking I must have had some stuck together somehow.
So how many books did I read last year?
I know! Awful isn’t it? And what makes it worse is that my writing output has fallen sharply too.
It doesn’t end there. I struggle to keep up with blogs, don’t read my magazines and the only time I’ve had my sewing machine out in ages was to make Lachlan’s Egyptian costume for school.
I feel as if I’ve just discovered a giant red spot on the end of my nose that’s been there for months, glowing, visible to everyone but me. I’m not myself that’s for sure.
I seem to be suffering from chronic lackadaisicalness, which has always been a favourite word of mine as is lackaday which is of course an expression of dismay and sums up how I felt when I tallied up my Books Read.
This year I am going to do better. I don’t usually make resolutions, but last night I found myself absolutely determined to read more and write more.
On a completely different subject, last night Indy slept properly through the night for the first time since his insulin dose was changed. Tom warned us there might well be a wobble when he started the once a day insulin injections and there was.
Next Sunday I’ll do another curve and we’ll see how well, or not, that he’s doing. There’s no doubt his sight is getting worse, particularly in his right eye, but if I throw it right, he can still fetch a ball. He’s still perfectly happy and that is what counts.