For a period of about two weeks this fall, I was unable to read.
I wasn't ill. My vision was fine. My glasses weren't broken. The problem wasn't physical — it was, I guess, psychological.
You might remember that late fall was a dark, gloomy time. Cloudy, day after day. Colder than it should have been. I don't know if the weather had anything to do with my reading slump — surely we've all endured lousy weather before — but it probably didn't help.
There were other factors: A close relative was in the hospital. And my husband and I were dealing with the last weeks in the life of a beloved old dog, and all the work and sorrow that entailed.
I was sad, I was distracted, I was cold, and I just could not bring myself to read — a very bad thing for a person in my job.
Every day, I brought home four or five books from work, staggering under the weight of my over-full backpack. After dinner I'd take out a book, read a few pages, and set it aside. Then I'd go play Scrabble on Facebook with my siblings.
I blamed the books ("Why is everything so tedious and boring?") but in truth, the problem lay in me.
I've had reading lulls before, though not of this duration, and I knew there were ways to emerge from it.