As the year comes to an end, I think it is impossible not to look back on the past 12 months and reflect on what has happened and what has not. We are all humans, after all, carried away by the lure of new beginnings and the promise of a better future (in politics, in gender equality, in green issues, the world just has to get better, right?).
As I finished what I realized would be the last book of 2018 for me, I could not but revise my reading diary, that little notebook where I jot down the title and the date I finished a book, organised by years. A long time ago I decided to stop numbering the books and just make a list so that I would not feel pressure about how much I was reading. I have always preferred quality over quantity.
The amount of books I read in 2018 is 21 according to my diary, and 23 according to my Goodreads account. In any case, a number on the lower 20’s, something that had never happened in the 7 years that I have been keeping track of my reading, and a ridiculous number compared to what many of friends read. For a second, I considered the implications of this: Was I falling out of love with reading and books? Was I not doing enough? Was I not organising myself the right way? Why do other people read more than me? And so on, and so forth until I realised that 2018 was the year I read enough.
2018 was the year I earned my PhD –
So, in retrospective, I can sure that 2018 was the year I read enough, I studied enough, I did enough. 2018 was more than enough. It had its ups and downs like every other year, and I will forever cherish some moments: A meaningful conversation with my Godfather – my role model -; dinner with my cousins, who are like older sisters to me, conversations with my PhD supervisors, who will forever be my supervisors; long walks with the puppy; lunch with my parents despite my mum’s long shifts at the hospital; an odyssey to a magical summer concert; and many, many other things.
So, for 2019 I have no reading goals. I do not know how much I will read. Crime fiction and women’s writing will surely be part of it, sharing now my shelves with my medicine books.
Now, I’m off to enjoy a little break, maybe, curl up in bed with a good book. No pressure. Just me, a book and a blanket. More than enough, right?