I don’t know what I want to read next. I just finished reading the last book in Eloisa James’s The Desperate Duchesses series, A Duke of Her Own, and before that I finished re-reading the published books in Meljean Brook’s Guardian series. I want to read more of both series, that’s what I’m really craving, but there isn’t any more. Everything I’m picking up is getting put down again because it’s Not What I Want.

I hate it when I go through this. I have to read; it might be as necessary to me as air, water, food and shelter. Yeah, I could physically survive without reading, but I don’t think it would be living.

If it gets bad enough, I’ll end up reading three or four things at once, grazing each until one really catches hold of me, or until I give up on all of them. The maddening thing is that I have buckets of books I want to read. Just not now. This is why I return library books unread after nine weeks: while I had them out, I wasn’t in the mood for them.

I hate this.


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