I have a problem. It’s one I’ve faced before and I’m sure I’ll face it again. But I’ve never experienced it in such a debilitating way before. It may not seem like a problem to you, dear reader, but for me it is a cause of great concern.
I cannot read.
That’s not to say I am unable to read – it’s not that I have physically lost the ability to understand the scratches and scribbles on a page that convey meaning. Merely that I cannot focus for any length of time on said scribbles. Even my morning commute of a mere forty minutes is too long, when such a short time ago it was not long enough.
I’ve been trying to ignore the problem, betraying each book with another, stacking the rejects on one side. There are four on my bedside table, gazing forlornly as I climb into bed each evening.
I’ve tried historical fiction, fantasy, poetry. I’ve returned to old favourites and the unputdownables that never fail me. But I cannot manage more than a few pages before my mind wanders and I realised I’ve turned four pages and not taken in a word.
As I previously mentioned, to most people this would not be the biggest problem in the world. They would find something else to do with their time. But for me there is little else to fill the WiFi-less commute with. Music only holds me for so long when I can’t sing along with it. Computer games frustrate me when I cannot complete the level.
I hope that this will pass. That it is a temporary glitch caused by stress, tiredness, or too much of my own writing perhaps. In the meantime I guess I can draft some blog posts.
Have you ever struggled with a similar problem? Do you have any solutions I can try?