My eyes are burning because I'm exhausted. And no, I haven't been writing. I haven't been working. I haven't been awake with sick kids. Hell, I haven't even started another crazy home improvement project.
My truth this week is that I'm reading.
Oh, it's been too long since I've really lost myself in a book. It's so easy to get caught up in reading books that you're supposed to read. I've been having conversations like this with myself for months:
Lisa: You know, you really should pick up [INSERT BOOK TITLE HERE] that everyone's talking about.
Other Lisa: Or I could watch more Canadian house porn?
Lisa: The publisher sent you that book. They're expecting a review! Tick-tock!
Other Lisa: But did you see what the Property Brothers did to that dump? The one is a realtor and the other one works with his hands. He's got these highlights that shimmer in the Canadian sunlight.
Lisa: Everyone will hate you if you don't read THAT BOOK. Get off Pinterest and READ you stupid HGTV whore.
Other Lisa: I'm sorry, I can't hear you. There's a marathon of Love It Or List It starting. That poor British designer always gets screwed by wonky roofs. Can't miss it. *Cranks the Canadian accents up to full volume*
But over the past couple of weeks I've turned off the HGTV and I've completely stopped feeling obligated to read anything. If I start a book and I'm not completely hooked by chapter 5, I'm done.
And just like that reading is my new guilty pleasure. I tore through Jonathan Tropper's THE BOOK OF JOE (absolutely freaking genius), I devoured Emma's final adventure (SURRENDER by the amazing Lee Nichols) and now I'm completely and utterly lost in Stephen King's 11/22/63.
I feel like a new person. I feel inspired. I feel like a writer. No, screw that, I feel like a reader. And you know what? It feels good.