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This year was the year that I started filling out a media journal. I bought a bullet journal, which is basically a blank journal covered in dots. I also bought a bunch of colored markers, washi tape, and stickers so that I could mark out the months and write about all of the books, movies, and TV shows I was watching.
I was finding that I wasn’t remembering the books that I was reading, even if I did remember liking them. Couldn’t remember the plot points or all of the character details. If you asked me to give you a synopsis, my face would assume the confused lady meme look as I struggled to remember.
But the bullet journal was so helpful. I would write down the title of each book that I was reading, and then as I made my way through the book, I would jot down my thoughts. It was great, and it was helping me to remember the books that I read.
And it was also giving me more energy to read as well. I even went to my local library to check out a real, live hardback book! I had been mostly listening to audiobooks or reading books on my Kindle. It was wonderful to smell the enticing scent of paper and ink again.
Sadly, I did no research when I checked out the book. I just went to the new release section and browsed the colorful plastic-covered books on the shelf. I ran my finger down the spines, reading the titles, and if it sounded interesting, I would pull the book out and read the blurbs. “Brilliant storytelling” read one. Hm…that sounds enticing. “This affecting, idiosyncratic novel…is an impressive achievement.” Do tell. “A quirky, ambitious book…[Author X] succeeds gloriously.” Well, these were all very high compliments. Let’s check this bad boy out, shall we?
It wasn’t until I was about 100 pages in that I realized that I was forcing myself to read each next page. It was then that I understood that those ellipses in the blurbs were doing a lot of heavy lifting. The book was quirky, far too much for it to be very readable for me. It was also a translation, which I’ve had trouble with in the past. I have often found that, no matter how skilled the translator, there was something being held back in the prose. I could see that the writer was attempting something grand and experimental, but that often times relies on pitch-perfect turns of phrase and idioms that don’t always come across clearly in a translation. I found a quote online by Anne Michaels where she quotes someone saying that reading a poem in translation is like “kissing a woman through a veil.”
The book was 310 pages, and I was basically a third through. My bullet journal was calling to me, but I just couldn’t write down anything interesting. Each evening, I would pick the book up, and then almost instantly fall asleep before I could make any progress. I extended my checkout period, and being the completionist that I am, I was determined to keep going.
But then I thought, my god, woman, you’re almost fifty. Why on earth are you spending your free time forcing yourself to do something that you don’t enjoy? Why not just put it down and pick up a different book?
And that is exactly what I did. I do not have to finish everything that I start. And that is OK. There are so many books to read. So many movies to watch. So much music to listen to. So much life to be lived.
And now on to Sense and Sensibility. Happy Reading!
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