It’s lists season. I usually devour best-of lists with the detachment of someone who knows she’s going to watch a three movies this year, has all but given up on finding new music , and doesn’t mind consuming pop culture moments 6 months after the fact. But the book lists!
*heavy sigh*
I’ve had to start skipping over them when they pop up on my feed. Both Best-of lists from tastemakers like the New York Times and Vulture and screenshots of everybody’s Goodreads charts, I can’t look at anymore. For the same reason I had to stop following Instagram influencers who are living that #vanlife #wanderlustfamily: I know that the time is finite, and energy is precious, and I need to sleep sometimes. In short: I’m not moving my family to Bali, and I can only read so many books in a year.
I read 108 books, according to Goodreads (assuming I remembered to log them all), which is no small thing. And still, I feel deeply and seriously jealous of the books other people get to read. The fun ones, the heavy ones, the ones I would feel inclined to brag about and the ones I’d be embarrassed to admit. I love the sensation of being IN a book. And then the satisfaction of COMPLETING the book; how it sits with you a while when it’s really good, and how I think about who I should make read it, and how I’ll review it on Goodreads (or hopefully this year, Storygraph). IMAGINE if I could add all the bests from the Best-of lists and have that IN feeling and COMPLETED feeling even MORE!
This is what retirement is for, right?
RIGHT?
For now, in my time-limited life, my TBR list is already so long, I can’t bear adding more.
I’ll do a breakdown of favorites later, but here’s the teaser screenshot.
