I mentioned yesterday that I had been a little bit bonkers with poorly partners (who are back in hospital as I type), travelling here there and everywhere, mass reading for The Readers Summer Book Club and organising The Green Carnation Prize for 2012. Well I think somewhere in this mass of manic activity I seem to have completely lost where I am with reading and what I am reading. It wasn’t until sorting things out for new carpets to be fitted (how domestically unexciting does that sound) that I realised the extent to which my multi-reading has spread. I knew I was reading a few books at once for various reasons, though normally I am a one book boy, but I didn’t realise I was reading so many books at once. I was slightly horrified.
I have tried to protect the identity of these poor abused books, for I bet any book that gets picked up willy nilly and ditched with the same haphazard nature resents its reader, though I didn’t mind you knowing the top one was Mary Beard’s first collection of essays from her blog as that is the sort of book that should be dipped into. The others though I really have no excuse for. They are all fiction, which means somehow I am digesting five fictional stories at the moment and yet I don’t think I am getting confused with them, until I sit down with them. One of them I am actually possibly going to have to start again, I am that confused. Unimpressed.
I think the line of action to take now is to simply sit, and I have a lot of waiting to do while someone is under observations, and concentrate on getting all of these finished, yet of course being the book lover that I am (and the fact I have some books to read for work) I have a rather large pile of books looking at me hopefully, possibly even a little threateningly, to be read.
Any advice on this? How many books are too many to read at once? Do any of you have a secretly stashed pile of half read books collecting dust somewhere in your house hidden away? Do share; make me feel less guilty/bad/naughty/inept.