Trying to hang in there

I'm not falling behind after all! I'm just no longer ahead. Fortunately, I read 12 books in January when I only needed to read eight. Whew! Still in the game. Why oh why do I make myself read such difficult books, though? At the moment I'm 40 pages into Black Sun by Julia Kristeva. Pretty far from a light read, but every word is so satiating to me, I just can't stop reading. What can I say? She's my guilty pleasure. Reading Kristeva seems appropriate tonight since I talked to a grad school friend for an hour and a half this afternoon. Kristeva was the bane of our existence the first semester of our grad program, but I secretly loved reading her Strangers to Ourselves. I may have even written a thesis on her works if I I hadn't worried about potential "adult bullying" at the hands of my classmates. Who knew reading about depression could make a person so sublimely happy? Also of note, I've loved revisiting the Emily of New Moon series. It's fun to read them now and gauge how much I've changed and grown since first reading them in third grade. When I first read them I assumed that, like Emily, I was destined to be a writer. Now I'm not so sure, and it's kind of disappointing to read these childhood favorites at 27 and see how little I've accomplished. Also--it's jarring to see how much my reaction to her decision about moving to New York has changed. When I first read the books, I'd never moved in my life and I was so glad Em chose to stay put on P.E. Island instead of move to NYC to work at a magazine (as a 17-year-old, no less). Now, 10 years Emily's senior, I find myself longing to (and seriously planning to) move to NYC, and I'd give anything to work at a magazine. At least I'm not too set in my ways . . .