Last Saturday I re-read, finished challenging and gave my First Reader consent to the first four chapters of a new trilogy, which in hindsight I realised I’ll be most likely busy with for the next eighteen months or so. And when I say busy, I don’t necessarily mean the careful reading, considering, arguing, notes writing, re-reading and re-reading again part. I mean, and this is based on experience, how part of my heart will be borrowed by a bunch of fictional characters, written to a level of depth where they start feeling real to you, making you care about them a little more each day (hell, I’m already worried about one of them!), how my head will always stay a little under the surface of the story, wondering, reflecting, contemplating as the tale slowly unfolds chapter by chapter.
And I suppose this is part of the reason why I only read a handful of books during the year. Between beta-reading and writing my own story it’s not just the amount of time I have left that is not sufficient for taking much more in. It’s also what I have left of me. Temporarily a little less space and capacity, both in my brain and in my heart. That precious few that do make it to my reading list are hence always truly special.