Keeping Pace

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Reading has been hard lately.

Isn’t it weird how that happens sometimes? Life gets busy, people need your attention, work takes up more time than you expect, and BAM! You’ve read two books for the whole month.

Ouch.

I actually don’t remember how many books I read in May. I’d have to check. Hopefully, it was more than two, but I have my doubts. Reading has been HARD lately. Sometimes, even the most important things in your life can get pushed back because of stress or work or people or about a hundred other things that I don’t have the energy to list right now.

Life happens, is what I’m trying to say. And when it does, you have to pick your priorities in order to keep pace with it.

And right now, sadly, reading one hundred books this year is not one of my priorities.

Tragic, right?

Oh well.

The nice part is, I really do have time to read occasionally. In the mornings after my workout . . . six minutes before I start work for the day. Or in the evening, fifteen minutes before I drop into bed. It’s not for long stretches, generally, but I do try to pick up my books often enough to remember that I love to read. Thankfully, I have no shortage of things to read. There’s the audiobook on my phone that I have neglected to start. And the book on my phone that I’m reading for work. And my many, many bookshelves which are full to bursting of books I would love to read or reread.

Still haven’t chosen one of those since I finished the last one. Should probably do that.

Leaving a book on my end table right next to where I sit has also proven to help remind me to read. A page here, a page there. I may not reach a hundred books this year, but I’m keeping pace. And I’m getting a few books read while I do.

How do you keep up with your reading when life gets busy? Tell me about it in the comments!

Go To Sleep

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I come when the library closes.

The lights are out, except for the lamp Mrs. Wilfe leaves on just for me. The doors are locked, and the windows have been shuttered. Even most of the reading desks are cleared. No one is left.

Only me. Because I have to put the stories to sleep.

I start in the children’s section. I like it back there best, because I can still hear the murmur of little voices reading aloud, and the rustle of turning pages. It’s not so silent, not so lonely.

I switch on a desk lamp as I step inside, and pick up a book lying on the floor. The Biggest Bear. An old, old favorite. The pages are stained with fingerprints, and the cover is a little torn, but it’s happy. Its story has been told today, many times, actually. It’s a little out of breath, a little tired, and I set it back on the shelf where it belongs.

The books in this section are the rowdiest, but they go to sleep fairly easily. Their stories were told, and they’re worn out from being dragged from shelf to table, table to floor, and back again. I stroke their spines, set them back in order on the shelves, and they fall asleep when I turn the lights out and leave them. They don’t have trouble sleeping, not like some do. I’m never sorry to see them awake when I come.

The adult books are harder. I can hear them murmuring when I flick on the light, their voices rustling like burning paper. They sound angry tonight, and I wonder who has been woken this time. It’s hard to tell. The stories are being whispered from shelf to shelf, passed on, overlapping each other, desperate to be heard. Old forgotten voices, caught in the dust between the pages. I can’t tell one from the other, not when they’re all talking at once. Grief and love, war and hate, treachery, betrayal, reunions, mystery, and horror. They all have a story to tell, but for some of them, it’s been a long time since anyone bothered to listen.

I walk through the shelves, running my fingers along the weighty spines. Quite a few are awake today. Awake, stifled, and frustrated. Who woke them up, I wonder? Who yanked them off their shelves, pulling them so unceremoniously from whatever dreams they were having, to page through their chapters and silence them again?

I pick up a heavy volume from a reading desk. Nearly a thousand pages, and whoever woke it up read less than three of them. I pass my hand over the cover, blow some of the dust from the pages, and set it back on the shelf. Another day, I tell it, although I’m not sure if I’m lying. Some of them have only been woken like this, for a page or two and nothing else, for a long time.

Some of them have been silent for so long that I’ve forgotten what they sound like.

I switch the reading lamps off as I go, stroking spine after spine. Go to sleep, I tell them. Forget the stories you tried to tell, the people who woke you up. Rest.

For some of them, it isn’t so easy. They’re angry, and angry books are hard to settle. I spend a long time among these shelves, soothing them, quieting the arguments. I can’t listen to them all at once, and I certainly can’t be the one to read every book, although I try to give the loneliest a chance. They know when I’m humoring them, of course, but most are grateful anyway.

But I can’t read all night. They have to sleep, and so do I. They listen to me at last, and their whispers fade into silence. I flick off the last light and listen to them breathing. Someone will come to read them eventually. Every book has a story that someone needs to hear. Every book has a heart it needs to heal, a mind it needs to open. Someone will come.

Until then, I’ll do my best to coax them back to sleep.