The First Entry

I do not remember my first introduction into the world of books and stories because it seems that I was always there. Using my mother’s large collection of (bootlegged) yellow books and my dad's library accrued by having been a literature major, I grew up hiding in forts of books, both literal and figurative.

Later in life, in my teens, I’d read enough books to want to create something of my very own. To this end, I dabbled in mediocre poetry of no fixed style and half-formed-but-never-fully-executed plans for novel-length works. See other published example of poetry here. I decided the only remedy was to read more books.

Sometime (more than a year) ago, I decided to read 100 arbitrary books and not to write until I had finished.

Due to doing menial work (otherwise known as creating solution manuals to high school textbooks) in soul-sucking constructs (offices) and general disillusionment of life (burnout), I had previously been, shockingly, unable to read.

I was unable to plow through books.

I constantly questioned the point of reading a book. At age twelve, I never questioned why I read; it was not necessary to know that reading is good or rewarding and it was not necessary to know that I’d like the book. I just read on. This is how one reads War and Peace at age twelve. The fact that each character is called several different names with arbitrary frequency is not a deterrent to reading if one is twelve, naive, and a reader by disposition. But approximately 8 years later, I found myself unable to focus enough to read anything longer or pithier than a course description for my university classes.

Having the freedom to choose books as I went and by reading shorter works, I eventually conquered my aversion and world-weariness, found a reason for my days of reading and rekindled my addiction for books. Sometime recent, I finished my 100 books pledge. I’d expected that upon completion, I would sit down with pen in hand and take to writing like Michael Henchard to drinking (Mayor of Casterbridge, #32 of 100), but reality is much more anti-climactic. It seems that I had nothing to write about. Luckily, I remembered that I did develop an appetite for books.

To manage my bookish thoughts and pursuits, I’ve decided to keep a blog wherein I ramble (that is to say, review and reflect) about books that I read.