You’re not the boss of me
I’m an avid reader. I read fiction and nonfiction, across a wide swath of genres. I’m rarely seen without a book in close proximity. Consequently, I get quite a few invitations to participate in book groups. I turn them down, every time.
Give me an hour in a library, and I’ll stagger up to the check-out counter with a pile of tomes. Recommend a great book you’ve read, and I’ll swiftly add it to my never-ending queue of must reads. Start a conversation about a book we’ve both read and I’ll join in. But assign a book and tell me to read it by a certain date. No thanks.
I often wonder why. Apparently, I cannot be happy about reading unless I am free to choose what to read and when to read it. And although I rarely abandon a book once I’ve started, being at liberty to do so without incurring the disapproval of the book club maven is apparently a cornerstone of my existence.
One day, I may succeed in raising contrariness to an art form.