There is a time to read and a time to write. The latter is upon us. I have denied this for as long as I could—not because I fear or dread the act of writing, but because I feel so sickened with guilt every time I put my books aside. The good news is that my current task, A People’s History of the United States, can be halted at the end of any chapter, and recommenced without significant trouble.
[Why are you convinced that this is the time to write? Or, perhaps more accurately: why are you convinced that now is not the time to read?]
Because the act of reading has become so bloody painful. A People’s History is not laden in the least; it is actually one of the most accessible works of political analysis you will ever find, hence the frustration in my struggle to read it. I had set myself a goal to finish the book by Monday, but I’m only one-third of the way through it.
[Are you struggling relative to the standards of performance you set for yourself, or do you find yourself struggling, period?]
Unfortunately, I’m just struggling. It happens to me sometimes. If I read too much, too quickly, I burn myself out, and my mind just shuts down. It refuses to accept any more text. People think it can’t happen, but it can: have you ever exercised excessively, at which point your body responds with aches and pains, thereby preventing any more exertion?