I am reading a few chapters of a mystery each night lately: Let Loose the Dogs, written by Maureen Jennings and set in late nineteenth century Toronto. My last book was The Heart is a Lonely Hunter: authored by Carson McCullers and set in the south in the 1930s. I have found neither to be a page-turner and have been content to take in a bite-sized portion most nights at bedtime.
Is it the books or I who are at fault — if indeed there is blame to be assigned? Could it be that I have reached another milestone and that I can no longer be captivated by a story, that I am no longer capable of feeling compelled to read on? Is this yet another life-change? It doesn't seem that long ago when a novel could hook my feeble brain and demand to be finished that night.
Now, I seem to read because I have enjoyed it in the past or because, on a good night, it helps me to fall asleep more easily afterward. It's fine to read in order to relax at bedtime, but I hate to think that I might never again feel compelled to succumb to the urge to read just one more chapter ... and one more ... until I am done and feel somewhat exhilarated by the experience.
I am really hoping that I just haven't found the right book lately, that I haven't really changed that much. Say it ain't so.