I’m sure I’ve heard or read it somewhere (and I don’t know if it is true, but it certainly makes sense) that the first step towards addressing a problem is to admit you have one.

So here goes.

I have a reading problem.

By which I don’t mean (as I’m sure you’ve already figured out) that I struggle to read. No, my problem is more in the way of will power, or rather lack of it, when addressed to books of a fictional nature. Put simply; I struggle to resist them – and even worse, once started I cannot separate myself from them until I have finished.

Truly, I cannot separate myself from them. Only a few books that I pick up are interrupted and read over a number of days, predominantly those of a less inspiring nature or in a harder to read literary style. If I were to think about it, I can probably count them on the fingers of one (possibly two at a stretch) hand.

I shall give you an example.

In 2019, I read Sense and Sensibility by that most eloquent of authors Jane Austen. A fascinating tale of society and romantic hopes, attachments, and misadventures of an earlier century, written in the expanded and highly descriptive style of that time. As a result, it is a read that takes some concentration on a first review by a contemporary reader.

Having started reading on the Monday evening, I finished on Thursday night, read in short bursts in the evenings, mornings (I acknowledge this is when I shouldn’t as I should have been preparing for work) and over lunch times. Four and a bit days to read the 374 pages of my unabridged copy.

The following Saturday, in an exploratory mood, I came upon a second hand book shop in Fakenham, Suffolk and despite my own misgivings and in full awareness of how ‘dangerous’ these places are to my already strained purse I entered. I got most of the way round before I came upon a pile of Agatha Christie publications. If I hadn’t looked down to check the location of a change of level, I might have made it out unscathed. But no, the top three books on the pile were three I didn’t have in my collection and once picked up to read the back covers, never got put down again.

A purchase, I hear you cry, doesn’t equate to immediate reading. Under normal circumstances I agree with you, particularly in light that I was some way from home and had other intentions for the afternoon – namely taking a long overdue stroll around a woodland or two (these being favourite of habitat of mine). However, I was in need of a cup of tea.

Sadly, having left the writing materials I had brought with me (for the express purpose of writing in the wilds of East Anglia) in the car, I opened the first of these Christie books whilst I waited and then proceeded to drink my tea.

Of course, the particulars of the rest of my weekend I shall skim over as being un-necessary details (though you may be pleased to note that I did stretch my legs and explore more of the Suffolk countryside), and get down to hard facts. The first book was finished by the time I switched off my bedtime light at 11.30pm. The second book was picked up shortly after 9am for my breakfast and completed by shortly after mid-day, and the third started as my lunchtime read and was completed shortly after 4pm.

That’s three books, 571 pages, in a little over 24 hours (of which 8 hours were sleeping)!

Can you guess what the problem of this addiction is?! I’m sure you can imagine.

My yet to be completed washing up fills the counter, my overflowing washing up basket remains overflowing, my floor remains un-hovered, my shelves un-dusted, my social media market ignored and other research projects not touched, and my writing non-existent.

Further, this problem of mine is made extra peculiar because prior to these additional purchases I already had a large ‘to read’ pile (whose idea was it to have a charity bookshelf in supermarkets that you have to pass as you leave the tills?) that is still growing.

Somehow, I can resist this pile (sometimes) and yet still get lost in any number of the books on my shelf I have already read – sometimes repeatedly.

My reasoning being that if I pick up an unread book, I shall not be able to resist. If I pick up a book I have already read, because I know the characters, the story, the plot and the resolution, I will be able to dip in and out – i.e. read a chapter with a cuppa and then return to more useful pursuits.

Which in the very back of my mind I know to be rubbish as these are books, I love the characters – many of which are now ‘friends’ – settings, action of and remain addicted to. But I cling to the hope non-the-less.

Foolish.

And of course, this is the tip of the iceberg. During the first 9 months of 2019 when this blog was first prepared for Goodreads, I read 61 (!!!) books, of which 9 I have read on multiple occasions (for the sake of this post I counted each re-read as one book so each re-read adds to my total and is included within the 61). And this with the then New Years resolution to not read so much, having read at least 52 books during 2018 (and I know that there were several in that list that I have read multiple times but were only counted once…, so at a guess I would propose that I did in fact read somewhere between 60 and 70 books last year)

I will admit that I am fairly relaxed about my living habits – I live alone, have no regular visitors and have what is probably commonly recognised as the creative temperament. That is, I have a disorganised concept of putting things away, and a short attention span towards anything related to tidying. I don’t need to polish everything to the nth degree, as a little dust won’t hurt me (I know that I am in an incredibly fortunate position in my general good health). Even so, I know that I need to do more, and to do it more regularly.

The first step is admitting a problem. Done.

The second step is to address it.

Somehow, I feel that will always remain a problem…