So having finished Looking for the Lost last night, I wanted to start a new book. But as so often happens after reading a book I really, really enjoyed, I decided it should be something light. So I picked up the science fiction book Forever Peace and read the first 20 pages. It was okay, but not really the kind of book I wanted to spend my time reading when I had so many other, better choices. So I returned to the bookshelf.
Hmm, Memoirs of a Geisha... ... No, I just finished a book about Japan. Somerset Maugham? Too serious. Wild Grass? No, let's read a novel (it's about cultural undercurrents in China). Ahhh, Will Ferguson whom I love and adore. Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw. I read one paragraph, then realized that if I read this hard on the heels of Looking for the Lost, I'd be reading two books in a row about travelling. Also, it wasn't a novel. Furthermore, I knew it would leave me nostalgic for Canada, and I'm just not in the mood for that right now. Finally, reading it now would also leave me with a sad lack of Will Ferguson for the next 5 months. Back on the shelf it went. A-ha! Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Perfect! I opened it at random and read about a policeman (this was Love in the Time of Cholera). Too wordy for tonight. Sigh. OK, it's Confessions of a Shopaholic or nothing. There's nothing lighter on this shelf than that.
I took Confessions of a Shopaholic to the washroom (when you gotta go...), reading all the while, then stood a while in the kitchen and read some more. I felt myself starting to be captivated. But then I wandered, half-reading, back into the living room and caught a glimpse of the bookshelf again.
No. Can't read this. Too fluffy.
I snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. Stared at the books a few moments. Memoirs (again) - no, about Japan. Pico Iyer? No, about Japan. Anil's Ghost? Too much Ondaatje too soon (yes, it is possible). Ah, selected works of Murakami (Japanese author). But, no, also about Japan. God, how many books about Japan does one girl need??? Nevertheless, I read a few pages. I liked what I saw, but it wasn't quite what I wanted. I stared some more. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I slowly pulled out Charles Bukowski. Maybe he wouldn't be so bad.
I read the first entire short story. 8 pages. While it wasn't wretched, I distinctly disliked it, barely skimming the last 3 pages to see if it would redeem itself. It didn't, and I couldn't fathom reading another 25 stories like it. Back on the shelf it went.
Uh. So many books. None of them right. Am I the only person who has this problem?
I fished around my Miffy clock (the cutest little rabbit you ever did see) and from behind it, pulled out Tom Holt. Another science fiction writer. I didn't want to jump into this one - it's a big, big volume. But then I remembered how much I'd enjoyed his book Falling Sideways (you can look for the review in the stacks yourselves - I'm too lazy to go over there and find the exact link - it's in January 2006, I believe). And this book was actually two books compiled together ("Who's Afraid of Beowulf?" and "My Hero"). So I could just read one of the two, right? Plus, I could probably read it at the same time as a second book, once I get my urge to really read back. Warily, I read the first page. It made me smile, just a little bit.
I think it will do. At least for now.
But I'm not adding it to the "Currently Reading" spot until I've decided for sure.
And now, I've spent all my reading time on blogging about reading. Figures.