literary promiscuity

As we passed the bookstore on our drive into town this morning, I had a reflex thought to spend some quality time there and buy something to read -- it's my holiday after all. However, like all reflexes, it passed very quickly as I realized I had literally half a bookshelf of unfinished novels. Just this weekend I started two very good books which I have every intention of finishing... eventually.

When/where/how did I develop such a habit which, upon first examination, can appear so utterly horrendous? Going from book to book, actually finishing maybe every fifth book (at best). But I think the worst part of it all is, I've come to terms with this promiscuous Anna. My justification? What a librarian once told me -- that it was the reader's prerogative to put down a book. I guess I really took this to heart. [It's weird cos when it comes to movies, I've never stopped watching one mid-way through with the exception of Little Nicky which was, without a doubt, one of the worst movies ever made.]

One of the books I started reading this weekend - and will finish, I promise! - was Orwell's 1984. It's six years overdue, actually, since I've been meaning to read it since the 8th grade. And what I've read so far has been fantastic.


It's been so cold the past few days, snowing like crazing, which is a nice change. In the five years I've been in Dunedin I've never seen it like this before. It's absolutely lovely! If only it coincided with Christmas. Regardless we have been playing Christmas carols all weekend with the fire roaring in the background. All we need is some hot apple cider. Yum!