I’ve always loved reading. Summers when I was a kid, I would climb up the mimosa tree in our back yard and sit on the roof, reading Caddie Woodlawn or Trixie Belden. I would read late into the evening, read in the car on road trips–even though I always got carsick.

I read Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon in the third grade, and Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House in seventh. I read Foucalt’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco in high school. And somewhere in between, I managed to read everything Erma Bombeck ever wrote.

I still love reading, love losing myself in someone else’s reality. At least, I think I do. It’s been so long….

I mean, I’ve been working on my own novel for eighteen months now, and between writing and living the Chaotic Deam I don’t have a whole lot of time for leisure pursuits like reading.

I listened enviously at my writers’ conference a few weeks back as my peers swapped reviews of the books they were reading. I’m a writer, for cryin’ in a bucket–words are my trade and my craft. I should be immersing myself in them. But I had nothing to add to the conversation. Which is welcome, but rare.

When I got back to my hotel room that night, I tried to recall every book I’ve read this year. It was a quick exercise, because it was a short list. On it were eight fiction titles: The Horse and His Boy, The Little Prince (which I read every year, but I’m counting it anyway), The Stolen Child, Thr3e, Big Trouble, Fall on Your Knees, and two unpublished manuscripts by my writer buddies. Then I listed my six nonfiction reads: The Man Who Tried To Save The World, Kabul Beauty School, Writing the Breakout Novel, The Career Novelist, How to Write A Damn Good Novel, and The Plot Thickens. Grand total: fourteen. Fourteen books in an entire year. Barely more than one per month. And I call myself a wordsmith.

There were others that I tried to read, titles that looked promising but whose lure proved fleeting: narrative-heavy pages written around flat characters who spoke plastic words. I’ve heard readers say that they only give a novel thirty pages before they decide whether to keep reading. I wish I could make it that far. If I’m not hooked by page four, it ain’t happening. It’s not that I don’t want to invest the time, but these days I have the attention span of a labrador puppy in a swarm of grasshoppers.

I still manage to be a voracious reader, though. Like a woman on a diet, I find myself bingeing on junk-print. I read magazines cover-to-cover. I sometimes even look for the longest grocery line, just so I’ll be able to finish an article in peace. When I tear open the shrink-wrapping to dig my weekly coupons out of the newspaper, I can’t resist reading the tabloid-style entertainment mag. I wouldn’t give a half-chewed licorice jelly bean (because unless you bite them in half, you can’t tell whether they’re licorice–gag, or espresso–yum) for the movie star’s secret to happiness plastered across the front cover. Yet I read the whole thing. And then the comics. Even the stupid ones.

That part of my soul that derives its nourishment from the written word demands to be fed, and if I don’t keep my pantry stocked with good literary fiber, well I guess it’s going to fill the void with the literary equivalent of Doritos and Twinkies.

So when I arrived home from my conference, I decided it was time to shape up. Armed with all the motivation of a reformed couch potato with a fresh New Year’s Resolution, I boldly committed to changing my ways. Full of willpower and determined to punish myself for the patterns that got me to this place, I went out and obtained that Bow-Flex of books: James Michener’s Alaska.

I made it to page four.

Books are too small to make good towel hangers, but Alaska, like a Bow-Flex, is gathering dust in my bedroom. I’m sure if I had more time I’d have made it work. I’ve heard wonderful things about it. No doubt it would have chiseled the abs of my erudition. But I couldn’t muster the effort. It was too much, too soon. I’m not ready for a marathon. I need to take baby steps. Low-impact.

So here I am, humbled by my reality-pie. I’m still committed to read more, and to read better (I’m keeping Cosmo, though–don’t you judge me).

Yesterday, while checking out a FB post from Writers’ League of Texas, I happened across a link to BookingMama’s website. She reads. A lot. This month, she reviewed The Castaways, which sounds kind of like The Big Chill, only on Nantucket in the summertime. But without the kick-booty soundtrack.

Sounds like something I could handle, your basic non-incline treadmill set on a just-enough-to-be-challenging speed-walking pace. She promises the characters are wonderfully developed, and the setting beautifully described. Something I could succeed at, and hopefully that success can carry me on to further challenges.

Even better (dontcha’ just love when it gets even better?), Booking Mama is giving away a copy of The Castaways this month. In the interest of really-wanting-to-win, I shouldn’t share the link, but I like y’all, and since I haven’t been able to come up with a giveaway of my own to show my appreciation for you reading my little blog, here ya’ go: http://bookingmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/review-castaways-giveaway.html.

And if you do win, let me know. I may want to borrow it when you’re done….

Tags: Alaska, attention span, books, Erma Bombeck, Flowers for Algernon, Foucalt's Pendulum, magazines, novel, reading, The Big Chill, The Castaways, The Little Prince, The Man Who Tried To Save The World, time, Welcome to the Monkey House