I am the anti-resolutionist, as you may know from this blog post. It's ok. I've been called worse. I was waffling about what changes, if any, I'd like to make in my life.
I have decided. January is now officially my Permission to Read month. After work, and things a person must do to keep home and hearth from completely falling apart, I have given myself guilt-free permission to . . . read. Just read. Happy sigh.
This sounds rather anti-climactic unless you know my secret: as a child, I used to fantasize about being locked in the library all night, or ecstasy - all weekend! Just me and tons of books. I love their smell, I love their feel, I love the worlds they spin around me. I adore a well-turned sentence. I took books camping, babysitting and spent much of my elementary school years surreptitiously reading my own books hidden by the cover of whatever school texts I was supposed to be reading, or half-hidden in my desk. And sadly, it has been several years since I have felt I had the time to read for pleasure.
This Permission to Read month will do several things for me: 1. make me a better writer and sharpen my brain just by reading others' well-turned sentences and plots; 2. bring me sanity, relaxation and pleasure - all of which are much needed; and 3. give me some breathing space to think.
That's my rationalization. But really, it's all pleasure.