I’m in a reading slump, and it’s the worst.
Reading slumps are a very rare thing for me. When they happen, they’re unbearable. My morning routine starts with reading, so every morning I wake up, and my first emotion is dread at the thought of having to pick up a book. Then I face a 40-minute train journey for my commute – each way. It’s felt twice as long already.
I wish I knew where reading slumps come from. Being someone who identifies as ‘a reader’, not reading always brings me to edge of an identity crisis. I read, therefore I am. So if I’m not reading, am I even here?
Over the past month, I’ve picked up and not finished six books.
The Journals of Sylvia Plath? I’ve reached her very experimental phase and I … I just cannot.
Mad Girl’s Love Song? It turns out Sylvia Plath was not a particularly nice person, which makes me not want to read about her.
That Isabel Allende book my dad’s partner gave me? I need to finish that before I visit them next week but, I don’t know. Everything I read in German annoys me, it’s not a pleasant state, but none of this is!
The Time of Our Singing? This one was recommended to me and it did grip me for about 100 pages. But there is a reason I don’t like family histories, and that is because the story is always told from the most boring family member’s perspective. And I really don’t see why I should be stuck in a boring person’s head.
Essentialism? I listened to that one while running and it got preachy. It also got too hot to run with headphones in.
The Terror? Forgot it at work.
Maybe I’ve just watched way too many TV shows this month (The Purge, The Terror, Tuca & Bertie, Game of Thrones season 8, I’m mostly through She’s Gotta Have It, and I’m about to start Chernobyl), and reading is just not my format for experiencing stories right now.
Or, maybe this was all fate. Because 30 minutes ago, when I went to look at my trusted Box of Books I Bought In London to Read in Berlin, I found it – underneath the stack of magazines that live on the Box, I had ‘tidied away’ my April pay slip. The thing I’ve been looking for for the past two weeks, because if you want a flat and you’re the only one who doesn’t have her pay slips together, you don’t get a flat. And I found it, looking for another book to read.
This might have happened:
I’m now going to try The Word for Woman is Wilderness.