Pleasure Reading

I had an hour or so last night in which I simply laid in bed and read a new book I've been enjoying, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. This is the first bit of relatively recent fiction I've read in a while. Usually I crash into bed, grab some old favorite from the pile by its side, and read a few pages before falling into a restless, disturbed semiconsciousness. But it's a pleasure to discover a book that's new, that you haven't read dozens of times before, where you pursue the story through each turning page with a sense of discovery and excitement.

There are a couple reasons I don't do this more often. One is that myself and a few others feel that contemporary fiction isn't concerned enough with telling a good story, but that's a discussion for another day. The other reason is that I just don't have enough time. I was telling some friends from my writers' group that I wanted to be sure I'd get something from most meetings, and one of them said he wasn't so concerned, that going to the meetings gets him out of the house. Well, I'm pretty excited when I'm home of an evening with time on my hands once in a row, never mind twice. I don't need to get out of the god-damned house, I need to get in the house, sit down, relax, and read a book once in a while. I'll bet that's true of most people I know.

Cat update: I'm asked regularly for progress reports and I can gladly report that there's progress; he's eating a little better every day, he's eating at the moment, in fact. I don't know much about cat physiology but I'm pretty sure they have to eat.

I have to run now because the trash needs to be taken out and it's still dark. Dark is good because I have a large and ever-growing hole in the side of my sweat pants. This is unintentionally revealing and I don't want the neighbors admiring my sturdy thighs. Going out while it's still dark is my idea of being efficient. It spares me the necessity of buying new sweat pants and it spares my modesty too.