Sometimes I think my mind is getting soft.
I was a literature major in college. I felt like I was reading constantly, probably because I was. All kinds of lit–some that I loved (too many to list), and some that I struggled with. (I’ll never be a Joycean and Yeates–no, thanks.)
And sometimes I had so much reading to do, that I’d get a little behind. One of the books I skimmed was Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse and I’ve simply counted it as “read” since then. But I recently bought a copy, and determined to read it. I’m on page 11 and I don’t seem to have the mental toughness to press forward.
It kind of bothers me, but should it? I’m in a different place in life. My day’s work is no longer to dissect and derive hypotheses about the characters, authors, and the work as a whole. My day’s work is now to care for my little ones and read Dr. Seuss over and over because they like the rhythm. And when I sit down to read (which rarely happens, to be honest) I don’t feel like tackling Virginia Woolf.
Perhaps some day I’ll get back to that, but for now I’d rather make a pillow or tie a ribbon on something.