"Sex and cannibalism. You know, the usual."

Maybe the reason I've been so lax about writing lately is because I've been doing the opposite of writing: I have been catching up on my reading. I am determined to finish at least one of the dozen or so books on my shelf that have bookmarks in them. Some of those titles I left off over a year ago, which means that when I finally pick them up again, I'll be completely lost and will have to start fresh from the beginning.

In case anyone is curious, here's a partial list of what I'm currently reading, my definition of "current" being a rather loose one. (It's only a partial list because I have to go by memory, since I'm not home.)

1984
Wind, Sand, and Stars
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Can't Buy Me Love
Madame Bovary
The God Delusion
No-No Boy
A Tale of Two Cities
Anna, Ann, Annie

I am approximately halfway through all of them. For some reason, I always follow the same pattern with new books. I'll read feverishly, get to the middle, put down the book, pick up another, do the same thing with that book, pick up another, and so forth. My literary ADD does take a break when something major happens, like moving to a new city, at which point all the books go into a cardboard box, are left sitting there for several weeks, and are pretty much forgotten until the urge to read again jolts me from my illiteracy four to fourteen months later. Not enough time to have lost interest in a written work, but just enough to have forgotten all the pertinent details, like character names and everything that's happened. Like most people, I had a decent excuse for not reading in the first month after my relocation. Problem is, I've been in L.A. for six.

Why am I not reading at the moment, you ask. Because I'm out of town, silly. Why didn't I bring a book along with me? I don't know. Shut up.