I can hardly read. My focus just isn’t there.

True, I’ve been busy putting up with a series of minor health issues, but it isn’t just that. Most of it’s innocuous stuff; only one detail looms larger. It takes a lot of energy pretending that’s not so.

I’m not sleeping well. All day I’m yawning, chugging the coffee, pulling my own hair to keep myself awake. Yip, you read that right: Pulling my own hair.

The only way to break the cycle is to stay up, to force myself not to fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. That’s a lot tougher than it sounds. My sofa’s like a seductive siren. I hear it calling on the drive home…

SLEEEEP ON MEEEE… I’m so comfy! SLEEEEEEP ON MEEEEEEE……

Shut up, upholstered whore.

I unwind with the Olympics, rather than reading, because it takes no concentration watching pretty people twirling on ice. I’m on the last few pages of Spark’s The Ballad of Peckham Rye. I barely remember what I’ve already read. I’ll push to finish the last ten or fifteen  pages, but I’m going to have to turn right back around and at least skim back through the book. I don’t remember who all the characters are anymore.

This evening was the Great Books discussion of Jack London’s Martin Eden, the book I abandoned last week. As so often happens, after the discussion I second-guessed my original negative opinion. Turns out I missed the point. Who knew?

Part of the blame lies in reading it on my phone’s Kindle app. It’s okay in a pinch, but I really hate reading on such a small screen. I hate reading on a screen, period, but the book’s not that readily available, and I was in a hurry.

Funny, but the uber-romantic first third of Martin Eden, the part that put me off, wasn’t a problem for the men in the group. I was the only female that showed tonight, the only member who didn’t like it, and the one complaining loudest about the sappy plot.

Do I regret not finishing Martin Eden? Kind of. But then, I’m working very hard on finishing nothing lately. Give me points for consistency.

 

 

The next read for that group is A Clockwork Orange. The Kubrick adaptation put me off reading the book; I didn’t make it past the rape scene. I picked it up at Barnes & Noble, read the first few pages, and the book seems a lot different than the film, thank the gods.

 

In matters not-books, I have to give my daughter credit for a brilliant idea regarding journaling. She knows I’m having all kinds of problems keeping a personal journal. So, she suggested this:

 

1 – Buy a Page-a-Day calendar

2 – Jot down a few notes every day

3 – If you want to write more, have time and energy, expand in a proper journal

4 – Otherwise, what you have is better than nothing

 

Reader, it works! Vast, open spaces are intimidating right now, but page-a-day calendars are manageable.

See, I am managing something. My next goal: finding my attention span.

I can do this.

Wait… Do what?

Screw it. I’m heading for the sofa.