Once I found myself drawn into being a member of a book club. I enjoyed the social part of the book club. We had a wonderful array of different personalities, and the ages ran from 15 to 68.
There is a lot to talk about with that dynamic. Machacek But! Yes, a cracked open book “but.” During the very first meeting of the club the discussion came around to what type of books we all enjoyed reading.
History and mystery were two. Some enjoyed true stories, some wanted novels about women’s lives. Then it was my turn.
I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t really like to read.” There was an audible gasp. How could a writer not like to read? How could a woman not enjoy a good book in the summertime, or fall, or winter for that matter.
What better way is there to spend a long, warm afternoon? The truth is that I have the attention span of a gnat. A very small gnat. I can read and I do enjoy a good book.
It just takes several short spurts. Outside while reading, a bird might fly by, a rabbit may rustle in the flowerbed, or my breathing might even change. All very honest attention grabbers.
When I was in maybe the fifth grade, we were taken to the library and told to pick out any book we wanted. To take home, read and do the unmistakable book report on. I really don’t ever remember reading an entire book before that fateful event.
I picked a story about the first guy to climb Pikes Peak. The only thing I remember about the book is that the first day I read about 47 pages.