This week I finished off Terry Pratchett's Mort. A book I've read several times. Each time I get through it quicker than the last. Each time I pick up elements I didn't previously.
Like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I laugh every time I read various Pratchett books.
Also this week I took a look at my book shelf and had a small rush of thoughts which I can only see returning. A question arose.
Am I using novels to replace the lack of a possible love in my life?
Anyone who knows me is bound to be tired of the tales concerning me and Dark Lords who feed upon my naivety. It was around May 2009 when I decreed;
'I'm staying away from boys for a long time'. Even though they were just my attempts at gaining a relationship, it was certainly an activity that I kept up. But putting forward a statement such as that above, I knew there'd have to be something else to fill the void. In this case, it was books.
I'm lucky. I know books are valuable, a treat, a luxury, a source of joy and even comfort. However, of late I wonder if I'm giving each title the right recognition. So many would agree with me that to sit for a few hours on end and read a novel would be a luxury that is both free and difficult to obtain. Trying to find that amount of time to read is hard.
With two jobs I manage to get around eight pages on a bus ride, feeling that I'm in a bigger Capital City than Belfast really is. One remembers seeing commuters in London reading on their way down the escalator, no doubt them squeezing an extra few words in the thirty seconds it takes them to reach the platform.
With the coming up year I promised myself not to be swayed by what everyone else is reading, and what dominates the best seller list only because half of them are showing in cinema screens. What I read will be done so at my discretion. Hopefully this will be a step to appreciating the words and stories that novelists wanted to be read.
I suppose what I worry about is the fact that there's no human connection - that I don't have that 'someone'. I'm much better at handling it now. In fact there are times when I smile that I haven't got 'someone', because if I did, I think of all those books I won't be able to get through.
Does that make my soul yearn for something more certain?
It won't surprise you to know that at the end of the day, when I slip between my two duvet covers, I'll always have whatever book I'm reading sitting in between my pillow and digital radio. Books seem a fair substitute for what I've been denied. And in that respect, I try to count myself lucky.
