I read 38 books this year. Mostly nonfiction, and proudly representative of my major interests: cosmology, deep time, and human nature. I ended the year with a stack of around 10 books sitting on my end table, most of which I’ve had checked out for several months and I just haven’t bothered to read yet. I keep renewing them from the library but when the time comes, I choose to sit in front of the TV rather than read.
When I have done some reading this year, it’s been in intense spates, several titles all in a row, all in a couple days. A punctuated equilibrium: watching TV is my default state, with quick periods of ravenous reading scattered around.
I’ve been struggling with this for the better part of decade. Peruse any of my past Year in Reading posts and you’ll see me harping on this. I consistently get to the end of each year with a feeling that I didn’t read enough, or didn’t read regularly enough. I have this idea in my head that I’m supposed to be a more dedicated reader than this.
Thing is: I didn’t used to worry about this. I didn’t used to think about it much at all. So why has it been such a major source of pressure and disappointment for me over the past decade? Let’s do some honest accounting of my history as a reader…







