confession.

Confession: I have a problem with becoming emotionally attached to books.

Not all books, mind you, but certain books, yes, I do.

Example: I finished A Suitable Boy on Sunday afternoon.  And now it’s Tuesday night.  It is 10:06, well past the time for me to close my laptop and pick up a book (I am a firm believer in no media for an hour before bed-time).  And the book I ought to be picking up is Mrs. Dalloway, since I promised myself to read every one of Barbara Kingsolver’s favorite authors.

Well, I did start Mrs. Dalloway on Sunday night; really, I did.  I read 18 pages.  But since then, I just can’t bring myself to open it again.  It’s not personal, Ms. Woolf, I promise.

It’s just that . . . my affections lie elsewhere.

David brought this to my attention last night when he said, “I like how you continue to carry A Suitable Boy around the house, and just set it down next to you.”

He’s right.  I’m not reading it.  I’m just . . . keeping it in my presence for awhile.

And I’m casually not reading anything else.  Tonight, yet again, I’m checking email and Facebook for the fifth time (okay, let’s face it: the tenth time), browsing some blogs, eating gluten-free chocolate chip cookies that my husband made, writing a blog post . . . anything to keep from facing the fact that I now have to start a new book, a book that is not A Suitable Boy.

It’s hard, being so loyal.