Isn’t there some cliche about idle hands? I don’t know if you’d classify my paws clutching a book as keeping them from being the devil’s playthings, but it works for me.
I’ve found too many writers have given up on reading. They’re so sick of words by day’s end that they’ll plop on the couch, beer in hand and stare glossy-eyed at the television.
I can’t do it.
I do it in the bathroom (foot holding it open, I tell you, no creepy germs on those library tomes).
I do it on the phone (hey, sometimes you bore me).
I have a book stowed under the front seat of my car – for emergencies I tell myself.
I have a revolving over-due fine account at the library, which I pay up with donations of books when I’m feeling really low down and dirty about what I’ve done.
I’ll be honest with you. I don’t want to be alone.
Even when my husband and my daughter are off gallivanting, I’m lost in London or gay Paree. (I’m a cheesehead, I know).
But there’s something intoxicating about this power for me.
It started at 3 when I sorted the family mail – able to read my parents’ names off the envelopes.
I will read the darn cereal box if that’s all I can get my hands on.
The only problem? It’s the writing I can’t handle once I’m off the clock. So much for blogging …
What’s your obsession confession?
Have you “liked” Inside Out Motherhood on Facebook yet?
If you’ve read this already, I apologize, I’m transferring in posts from a rarely-used old blog!
Image via Kevin Dooley/Flickr