The title of this post may seem insignificant—if it were any other day of any other more productive time in my life. But I’d like to celebrate the small things right now. I haven’t been feeling like doing much of anything, my writing is in a bad place, my day job makes me feel worthless and seeps into my nights, I’m dwelling on rejections from years ago, financial reality is incapacitating, I can’t commit to any new project… it’s a pathetic existence and the worst of it has been that I haven’t finished a single book I’ve started in months. So even one of my greatest pleasures in life—reading—was tainted by this foul mood.
But last night, I finished the book I was reading.
I read an entire book! And it felt wonderful.
I picked up the book sometime this weekend and read it faithfully every night. There were exhilarating moments when I got lost in the pages, when an hour or more would pass, and I would realize how late it was, and knew I should stop reading and get ready for bed, but I couldn’t just yet. I wanted one more section, one more scene, one… last… page.
I had forgotten what that’s like. I hope I never again forget what that’s like.