Since January, I have read the first half of several books—among them, Leslie Jamison’s Splinters and Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, And Tomorrow—without being able to finish a single one. Last year alone I read thirty-seven books, and in 2022, I read fifty, but this year—probably due to the anxiety surrounding my move home—reading has felt like an excruciatingly tiresome chore. And what’s interesting is that whenever my anxiety or depression flare up, they almost always affect my ability to read; reading, as my hobby but also as my profession, is the invisible metronome within my life—without which I lose all sense of scheduling and almost always feel a little unmoored. Lately, though, I find myself spending more hours online watching videos and reading celebrity gossip—a palliative balm of sorts, perfect for mind-numbing, emotional suppression. While I have always sought out more lyrical writing during times like this—hoping that something refined or polished might restore the fire in me—my current tolerance for longer essays and book-length narratives, no matter how much I try to change it, is small.
Process Diary #10 📚
Process Diary #10 📚
Process Diary #10 📚
Since January, I have read the first half of several books—among them, Leslie Jamison’s Splinters and Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, And Tomorrow—without being able to finish a single one. Last year alone I read thirty-seven books, and in 2022, I read fifty, but this year—probably due to the anxiety surrounding my move home—reading has felt like an excruciatingly tiresome chore. And what’s interesting is that whenever my anxiety or depression flare up, they almost always affect my ability to read; reading, as my hobby but also as my profession, is the invisible metronome within my life—without which I lose all sense of scheduling and almost always feel a little unmoored. Lately, though, I find myself spending more hours online watching videos and reading celebrity gossip—a palliative balm of sorts, perfect for mind-numbing, emotional suppression. While I have always sought out more lyrical writing during times like this—hoping that something refined or polished might restore the fire in me—my current tolerance for longer essays and book-length narratives, no matter how much I try to change it, is small.