Book, book, book, book

I have book vouchers, burning a hole in my pocket. They're for Kinokuniya, probably the best bookshop in the CBD. This is the kind of situation I intended to savour - mooching through the aisles, mulling over what I could spend my money on; not actually spending it, of course, just flicking the corners of the vouchers, or nonchalantly fanning myself with them.

But when I got there, something strange happened. Instead of feeling like a book devourer prowling for a top title, the piles began to push in on me. Consumption anxiety? So many books. So many attractive covers. So many blurbs that make me reach behind me for the comfy chair to start reading. And yet, and yet...

The other day my writing group met for a barbecue and partners were invited. One of the husbands arrived early, and someone inquired whether he did any writing. "No," he replied. "I read."

I'm pretty sure we all took half a step back to look at him, this endangered specimen. Sometimes it seems like everyone is producing something, demanding one small piece of our attention. To filter it I subscribe to those emails that provide lists of the hottest of the hot. There's one (Very Short List) that even selects only one thing each time. It's still too much. Sometimes I feel that before I try and write any more I should learn to just enjoy reading again.