I’m in a funk. A big black book funk. If you’ve never experienced one then it might sound foreign to you, but those who know will shudder to hear these words. I’m reading, slowly, painfully and am struggling to fall into the books, struggling to feel them echo, struggling to write about them, to enthuse.
I don’t think this has anything to do with the quality of my reading (although it might be convenient to blame it on Finkler) because I am actually enjoying Franzen’s Freedom, enjoying enormously. But still, there’s this vacant space and I am not feeling the rushing waterfall urge to pound through the last chapters and swallow the narrative whole.
In the meantime, the books are simply piling up next to my bed, on the floor, spilling off the shelves. If ebooks were weighty then my iPad would be unpickupable, filled with an elephantine load of tomes. Thankfully, I don’t feel this burden otherwise I might just fall into a deep depression to rival the book funk! (Another joyous aspect of my iPad … ahh!)
So, this is my consolation post and perhaps a way to rekindle (no pun intended) the passion.