I don’t like reading.
Yes, that’s right. I think it’s time to come clean with you all and admit that I’m a writer who doesn’t like reading.
So when I saw this week that the UK Telegraph published the list of ‘100 novels everyone should read‘ I decided to set myself a goal: I would read every one of the books on that list before I die.
I then did what every person does when they see a list like that and counted how many on the list I’d already read.
Now, this is quite embarrassing. My number is… TWO. Yes, I have only ever read, cover-to-cover, two books on the list. And they are number 99 – To Kill a Mockingbird (that we had to read in High School and all I really remember is when the teacher finally let us watch the movie and I felt sorry for the dog with rabies) and number 38 – The Great Gatsby (that I read recently and thoroughly enjoyed, even though I supposedly don’t like reading and even though the pont of view thing totally threw me).
I have to admit I have attempted to read a few more. I have read at least the first few pages of 77 (Catch 22), 52 (The Catcher in the Rye) and 27 (Frankenstein) all as recommendations from husband Bill when I’ve been rummaging around in the bookcase looking for something to entertain me for 5 minutes.
You see, I think that’s my problem. I fill my life with so many activites and events that I only ever have 5 minutes here and there to fill with leisure activities such as reading. And throw the addition of baby Prince G into the mix and that 5 minutes is more recently reduced to about 1 minute a day.
And then there’s my love of writing that always seems to get in the way. If I do get a few spare minutes I like to sit down and write… that’s always my first preference. In fact, even though I set myself the challenge to read 100 novels before I die, here I find myself writing a blog post about it instead.
Let’s work out the sums. It’s taken me 32 years to read 2 of the world’s greatest novels. Going at this rate I will be the ripe old age of 1,584 when I finish the list. I better get started.
So I’ve begun book number 97: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. I’m already up to page 32, which is ironically also my current age.
Is there something in that coincidence? Maybe it’s the answer to the meaning of life…