One of my New Year’s resolutions was to read at least two books each month from my to-read list. Three months in and I’ve been reading more than two books per month.
It hasn’t helped.
I’m always adding books to my GoodRead’s list from book blogger recommendations, Library Journal, Publishers’ Weekly, inside other books, etc. etc. It’s probably an occupational hazard. My list has stayed at around 170 titles for years now. No matter how many titles I read from it, there are always more going on the list and the list doesn’t get any damned smaller.
Last night, in a fit of exasperation and honestly, I culled my to-read list. I managed to pull about 30 titles off of it. I probably could have culled even more titles if I’d stopped to read more of the plot summaries. (I’ve done that in the past. When I reread the summaries, I want to read the book again.)
The victims of my latest cull were mostly titles that I aspire to have read*. (I apologize for the weird subjunctive there, but it’s accurate.) I pulled classic titles by Henry James and others that I finally admitted to myself that I will probably never read. I want to have read them, but if I’m honest, I’m much more likely to continue reading a mishmash of contemporary literary and genre fiction. And you know what? I’m okay with that. I’m still reading a classic novel a month, per my resolutions. I may read Henry James and Alfred Döblin and Fyodor Dostoevsky someday. But it bothers me that some books just languish on the list for years.
* Fun fact: Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” came up on my Spotify playlist while I was writing this. No, really.