Waking up to a new day, in a new year, I reach for my book. Start to read, quickly getting engrossed in the story unfolding page by page.
A third of the way in already, I have no intention with my reading, except to read. To enjoy. To be transported to another world, to get to know characters both vile and vulnerable, human and more than.
A couple of hours later, I get up to go to the bathroom, before sneaking back into bed, not having anything to do, nowhere to be, nothing to accomplish, having designated a full four days as me-time, this being day three of those, I go with the flow. I read on.
Before I know it, I have but sixty pages to go, and nothing will keep me from finishing this book.
So I do.
Read on to the bitter end, heart palpitating, knowing beforehand what will happen, but still, as engaged in the story as if I had no clue, I finish the last page and happily looks over at the bedside table where no less than three equally brick-like sequels await me. Oh the joy!
Happy to have spent four hours of the first day of the year finishing a book, I open my Goodreads-app and am prompted to set a reading goal. Last year I set the goal to 65, managing 108, I grope around for a number, finally settling for 88. 4 x 22, the number of the year, that sounds as good as anything. Having set it, I mark Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard as finished, writing a short review or rather, more of a reminder to myself, and get up, ready to face the day, smiling to myself as I think What better way to start the year?
