Ha. “Finally, time to read!” is one of those things I always assumed I’d feel if I were placed on bedrest. It seems logical. I have nothing to do—every single hour of my day is free, and I’m not allowed to move anywhere but within this room. Reading seems the logical—the glorious!—way to pass the time.
The problem is that I cannot concentrate. At all. And everything I do manage to read, I hate. I can’t get into anything, can’t lose myself in books like I’ve always been able to, in pretty much any other circumstance. Long plane rides. Long airport waits. Long waits for anything. Subway rides. Long spells when Lucia was born and napping long infant naps in my lap. But here, at the hospital—it’s not working. I’m away from home, away from my husband and child, and though I’m not exactly thinking about anything else, my mind is so scattered that I simply cannot remember what’s happened from the top of the page to the bottom.
I have some things to try. I’m awaiting an Amazon order with two Penelope Lively books, plus the first volume of The Hunger Games. I borrowed a Sue Grafton novel from the hospital’s roving library cart. Andrew’s going to bring me Anna Karenina. But the only thing I can work up any real desire to read is the Twilight series. I need something that will rope me in, make the hours fly by, and require little to no brainpower. I need thrillers and mysteries with not-too-complicated plots. Is there another Dan Brown coming out anytime soon?
My current roommate, an Ivy Leaguer with a law degree, has been reading Harlequins, so I know I’m not alone in this inability to focus on anything with any intellectual component at all. In the meantime, awaiting reading inspiration, I’m watching episodes of TV shows online. Sixteen days to go…