I’m sitting here with a lovely cup of oolong tea having just tossed a third book aside in the last hour and a half. One was a historical romance that seemed to meander all over the place without much point, though the back blurb sounded interesting. I couldn’t get past the third chapter. One was a haunted house sort of story that I didn’t even make it past the first 6 pages because the heroine simply annoyed me. One is supposed to be (I think) a murder mystery, which opened with a murder, mention of a suicide, and someone’s heart attack. It felt somewhat promising, but it introduced an enormous cast right up front, and though I made it through the first six chapters, it’s not compelling me to keep going. I finished reading Annette Blair’s The Kitchen Witch last night, which I enjoyed as a quick, contemporary read. It was funny and light and not at all mentally taxing. But it still wans’t quite what I wanted.
The thing is, I don’t know WHAT I want to read. I have at least a hundred books in my TBR pile back there and nothing is shouting out read me! Several of the ones I picked up today I’ll give a shot another time when I’m not in such a reading funk, but for the time being, I don’t know what the heck I want to read. Nothing is satisfying me. I find fault within the first fifty pages of everything I pick up lately, which makes me think it’s totally me and not that most of the books on my shelf are duds. I considered rereading something I KNOW is good, just to try to bring myself out of this mood, but I have no idea what.
I thought about watching a movie, but I don’t think I have the attention span for that. I’m just…BORED. And, of course, not at all in the mood to write something. I’ve got this absolute mental restlessness that I just can’t seem to get past. I know I get like this at least a couple of times a year, and it will inevitably pass. But damn it, I have time to read for once. I’d like to take advantage.
Maybe something with a Scotsman…