Daily Production

For most of my life, all I wanted to do was read. As a kid, I was the one curled up in my room with a book. If mom sent us outside to play, I took Nancy Drew with me. And you best believe I still have something to read in the car, an honest-to-goodness paperback volume of short stories, just in case I get stuck in a blizzard with no cell service. Boots, a blanket, and a book. Not that blizzards are common in the piedmont of North Carolina. But you never know.

Now I'm 3/4 retired and I could read as much as I want, but there's a loud and insistent voice in my head that says NO! I should be productive, I should be working on something significant like mopping floors or cleaning out closets or painting the kitchen. I should be writing on the two books that are underway, practicing the piano, or at least doing laundry.  And there's always the office that is knee-deep in files and folders, photos and stacks of papers that need to be organized. 

Sitting and reading; what a waste of time.

I used to dream about retirement, how long and luxurious the days would be. No interruptions. Deciding from one moment to the next what I would do. It's not like that, at least not often enough. 

Aside from Jill's studio, which is filled with art, every room in our house has books, shelves and shelves of books, many of them never read ---- yet. I have books bought at auctions and used book stores. There's a bookcase filled with musty volumes from my parents and grandparents. My office and upstairs house research materials, writing and reference books, classics and mysteries and paperback novels.  Author friends have expanded my collection and Amazon provides innumerable selections not available in the library. 

It's one thing to collect them and another to make time to read. When I do, as absorbing and exciting as a text may be, the niggling guilt often overtakes me and I jump up mid-chapter to put in a load of clothes, start supper, feed the dogs, clean the bathroom. 

Here's the question, if not now, when? I'm 69 years old. No promises anymore; I could come to a halt any old time or hang on for 30 more years. Those books gathering dust on the shelves will outlive me either way. 

To read or not read?

I choose a book.