I stress out a lot. I get stressed over things I need to do, things I haven’t done, things I think I should be doing. And one of the things that’s been stressing me out lately is the infamous TBR pile.
TBR, if you don’t know, stands for To Be Read. And I have so many books To Be Read.
Some are physical copies, lurking on my bookshelf, glaring down at me as I watch something on television. Some are on the e-reader, the Daily Deals that only cost a dollar or two. Many—oh, so many—are audiobooks. And no matter how much time I devote to trying to hack away at this pile, it only seems to grow. I get books from the library. All the time. The pile builds and builds.
As I was sitting down tonight, I was ruminating on this. “Ah jeez tomorrow’s Halloween, I gotta finish my Halloween listening, it’s gonna take six hours to finish Frankenstein, not to mention all those Halloween-themed podcasts, plus I gotta—”
And then, I heard the voice of an angel. My better angel, if you will. And he spake unto me:
“Who gives a fuck?”
I nodded. Yes. You are correct, my better if foul-mouthed angel. Who does give a fuck? This never used to worry me. Reading isn’t a performance art. I can read what I want, when I want, and at what pace I want, and I don’t owe anybody an explanation. They’ll get read eventually. Or they won’t.
(I blame Goodreads for all of this.)
Whether or not I will still feel this way tomorrow remains to be seen. I’m known for having sudden breakthroughs of thought only for the tide of anxiety to sweep over them. But until then, read what you want, when you want.
And if one of those things you want is an audiobook of Murder on the Brewster Flats as read by me, hey, that’s your choice and I support you.