Tonight is one of those nights when I'm blogging in a hurry, and it's my own fault. I could have been blogging before I had to teach online tonight, had I not been creating a lesson at the last minute.
Hubby has gone upstairs, and the rule is that if I can get up there and turn on the lamp to read my book before he turns off HIS lamp (or the t.v., like tonight), then I can read. If it's dark when I get upstairs, I'm not allowed to turn on the light.
By the way, that's MY rule, not his. He's much too nice ever to say anything about me turning on the light.
And I'm reading a book that's so good I can't wait to get back to it. It has even interfered with my finishing the afghan I've been working on for months, and all I have to do is finish the border around part of the third side and all of the fourth. It's going to be beautiful, and it had better keep SOMEBODY warm, because that sucker weighs a ton. Never mind I could have come out better had I crocheted it out of dollar bills.
I usually get into books, but the last one I tried to read just about killed me. I finally put it down, sighed, and said to Hubby, "I give."
I'm almost 50 years old, and I don't have to read a book if it's not fun.
I'm ashamed to name some of the books I HAVEN'T read, since I call myself an English teacher. But to tell you the truth, I just can't get into some of them. I acknowledge that someone somewhere deemed them "GREAT LITERATURE" and therefore they must BE great, but I just don't get them.
The latest one was The Grapes of Wrath, and please don't shoot me if you love, love, love this book. I was supposed to read it in college for a history class, and I didn't. So over Christmas break I tried to read it, and I made myself suffer through about the first 200 pages. I thought that damn turtle would NEVER get across that road. And then I was wishing I WAS a turtle and I could just wait there until a truck mercifully squashed me into smithereens so I didn't have to finish that book. Can this book truly be written by the same man who wrote Of Mice and Men? Seriously?
And then I decided I'm almost 50 years old and I don't have to read a book if it's not fun.
But the one I'm reading now IS great fun, and while it will probably never be considered great literature, it's at least a few steps above trash novels.
Nothing wrong with those either.