I've hit a reading flat spot. It happens about every three to six months with me. Nothing I read seems to hold any interest. Books are picked up, skimmed, discarded. Newspapers are flipped, ignored, and turned to the sports pages. The piles of books next to the bed and on the chest of drawers in the bedroom lie there getting dusty. I move them around from pile to pile, but it doesn't do any good. I've even taken to starting a pile for the books I'm going to take on holiday in six weeks.
I'm only deluding myself.
I don't know how this one started but I strongly suspect it might be due to the combination of the current books, a major birthday, and various other distractions such as the Ashes cricket. Just one of these might not have been enough to topple me over the edge of ennui; three are too much to resist.
So I sit and work, and watch Australia playing badly, waiting for the inspiration to strike again. It'll come. I know it will. I just don't know when.
