Reading

Last night I stayed up late finishing 'The Language of Secrets' by Dianne Dixon. The book was well written and engaging - a 'good read'. And I found, as I often do with novels, that I was rushing to get to the end. I do it partly because the story is entertaining... but I also do it because when I read novels, I'm a little unfocused. When I'm in the middle of a book my head gets stuck in a strange, disconnected place - like I'm trying to straddle two lives: my own, and the life of the character.

On the one hand, it means I'm enjoying the story (which I'm sure is the author's intent) but on the other hand, I always have the unsettling feeling of not being fully present in my interactions with the people around me... And characters in novels usually aren't living very happy lives, so when I'm reading I can also tend to be a little melancholy. (As my husband says, "People in fiction aren't happy - if they were they'd be boring... If someone wrote about us it would be a boring-ass book.")

I suppose I can't really blame my state on reading... Being in the moment takes work no matter how you slice it. Not work really - attention. And that - sometimes - is pretty hard work...