It's a strange feeling. I've been traveling this week, and haven't read a whole book since I got here. Though I've finished the two books I had started before I came (Roses and Rot, Between the World and Me), I've started nothing new--and haven't been too mad about that. Instead, I've been running, hiking, boating, swimming, sitting, thinking, writing, doing, being, chilling.
Partially, I think that's because this is a working vacation: though I'm not physically in the space in which I normally work, I'm not truly off of work, either. I spend my mornings tied to my laptop (albeit with incredible ocean breezes for company) checking emails, working on reports, etc. By the time I'm finished, I want to go take in the islands--not take in more written words.
And partially, it's a process of learning to just... be. Here. Not here but thinking of other worlds and other characters and other places. Not here but planning what book to read next. Not here but wondering if there will be time later for whatever story is yet to come.
So my week in reading post this week is slight, but I'm coming to terms with that. Or trying to, at any rate. I may continue with Wolf Hall, or I may browse my reader for some new galley I haven't thought to try yet. I may find something on the library shelf here. Or I may save my reading for my flights home this week, and just learn to be in the meantime.