Ah. The school holidays. A truly blessed time when I would immediately rediscover my recreational reading mojo which sadly but truthfully I must tell you had disappeared leaving no trace about halfway through Term 2.
Ah. This time. This winterish season of our corona discontent would be when I would finally pick up my copy of Boy Swallows Universe and not only begin it but finish it. I would join the ranks of the “have reads” who at the mere mention of this book swoon at the knees and rave about it in tones of awe and wonder.
Ah. Two weeks. Two whole weeks. Fourteen actual days. I would be able to take my staycation at home in a reading-induced reverie, pausing only for wine and vittels and perhaps to run a comb through my hair to maintain some sense of respectability.
I had such plans. I coulda been a contender. I have so many books lying around unread. Ta-Nehisi Coates. Andrew McGahan. The afore mentioned Trent Dalton. Something called the Milkman that has won some prizes. A huge work of historical fiction that is currently serving its alternative life purpose of propping up some other books (unread) on the piano.
I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that these plans were the best laid plans of mice and men. My holiday reading dreams have come to almost naught. Even though, in spite of the many unread choices scattered about my home, I visited Dymocks downtown and bought not one but three books. To be fair two were for a birthday present but I fully intend to borrow them back at some point. And I also popped into the book section at Big W and picked up a little bargain. If I bought these books I rationalised to myself, I would read. Surely.
And so a week passed by and I read nothing more challenging than social media and emails. To be fair some of those Trump tweets are pretty challenging on the old noggin but all published works on paper remained ignored. I was geting desperate. I couldn’t get to the end of two weeks and not have read a thing! Such pressure.
So I made a resolution. I was, you might say, resolved. Fully resolved. To not only start, but finish one entire book. I chose this one.
Hamnet by Maggie Farrelly. I had read a review of it somewhere and thought Hmmmm interesting, what did happen to Shakespeare’s son with the name so close to Hamlet? Well as it turns it this book is a work of fiction so I still don’t know but it ripped along and I got to the very last page. Success. I did it. I read a book. It wasn’t the best and it wasn’t the worst. I didn’t have high expectations because it wasn’t award winning. Nobody was telling me how great it was and how much they loved it and how I would love it too for sure, yes really, it is that good, of course it’s sad but it’s really great and great and good and wonderful. You’ll enjoy it.
Sorry. Just trapped in one of the many Boy Swallows Universe conversations there. Which remains on my shelf. Unread. It seems I have developed, through no fault of the book, a mild set against it. I’m now determined not to like it. Or read it. Like all the other things that I have been told are fantastic and that I must enjoy. (See also, the films Titantic and Forrest Gump, Shane Warne and more recently it seems, the musical Hamilton and the TV series Rosehaven.) Some less than charitable folk might call that contrary.
And so in between falling asleep after lunch every day on the sofa, walking the dog nearly every day, marking assignments, watching The Golden Girls on Stan and drinking chai lattes I have slowly begun the journey back into reading for recreation. Last night I started Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. So far so good. There’s every chance I will finish it. Or not. You never know with books.
Winifred Bell 