Well, 2013 quite a remarkably good year. Except if you look at my reading stats. Then things look pretty darn dire.
Yes, good people, here’s the number, and it ain’t pretty: 28.
I read 28 books last year.
(And this woman calls herself a book blogger?!)
I know. It’s pathetic. I knew I was broken and shpilkes-prone, but the numbers are worse than I thought.
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| Early morning. Post-race. No makeup. This is truly a terrifying post. |
It might be because I have about a dozen books in progress (some of them for more than a year now [dear God, what’s become of me?])
(But really? This is a pathetic excuse. Even if my number were in the 40s, it would be weak.)
It might also be because last year I ran 342 miles (which would’ve been a much higher number if Something Bad hadn’t happened in late summer) and even ripped it up at the Running of the Librarians.
And it might also be because things got wonderfully interesting in my non-reading life.
But still.
I’m feeling sufficiently ashamed of my reading rate that I had to share it publicly.
Yet, I wouldn’t change a thing.
And 2014 — I’m thinking I’m gonna like you, too.
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