There’s a certain heaviness that follows a good book. You can feel it shift and change depending on your engagement with the text, as if it’s growing larger and heavier with your constant attention and interest.
Last year, I read a record number of books, 74, to be exact. Usually, if I hit 30-35 books, that’s a pretty stellar year. But somehow, last year, I pulled off a wild amount. I attribute much of my relaunched book-lover identity to the fact that my new job has taken a lot of stress off my shoulders, so in the evenings, I’ve been able to relax and unwind a lot more. Also, this summer, I bought myself a Kobo Clara E2 so I could borrow books directly from the public library without having to borrow physical copies or wait as long for a hold to free up.
So between less stress, more access and honestly, a really great lineup of recommendations, I was excited to read, and so I did—a lot.
And now, as I write this in early 2025, I still feel that excitement for reading and books. My to-be-read list (TBR) is growing at a rapid rate. But the issue is that I’ve been distracted a lot more. I find myself getting lost on bookstagram, sucked into the endless scroll of exciting new reads and catchy short-form video content. Social media platforms are working better than anyone likely could have thought. Except now, they’re no longer social platforms but rather attention-eating advertising platforms. But I digress.
I’m distracted. I’m excited to find new and exciting books, but I’m struggling to pick up my current read and really get into the meat and bones of the story. The writing isn’t bad, the premise is exciting and right up my alley; I have time, I have a want, but I can’t get myself to pick the damn thing up. I hesitate and then feel bored.
Maybe this is just what a reading slump feels like now.
A little hollow, like something has been taken out of you.
A bit frustrating because you want to dive into some otherworld with other characters and exciting drama, but you can’t.
I blame the last book I read on this slight slump–I feel like I’m still mourning its completion.
It was a great read. I’m talking about, of course, I (Athena) by Ruth DyckFehderau, but I won’t get into it here because that’s not what I want to write about right now. Instead, like the poet I am, I just want to sit in this feeling and experience.
Loving a book is a unique feeling; it cannot love you back, it is not human, and yet you are fundamentally altered simply by the act of reading. It’s powerful stuff and a testament to the importance of stories and the word.
But eventually, that book ends, the series is completed, and the pages have run out. You knew it was coming all along, and you were powerless to stop it.
Growing up.
Growing old.
A sort of little death.
Inevitability has an unequal weight for such an empty feeling—like a hole, undefinable.
CupsOfSilver 
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