I have a large pile of books by my bedside. Looking at it earlier today, it occurred to me that there is a rule by which those books have accumulated.
It is somewhat similar to the principle by which one of my kids eats his meals: he starts with the food items he likes the most, hoping, I guess, that by the end of the meal, the rest will sort of take care of itself.
The books on my nightstand are mostly of spiritual nature, philosophy, wellness, healing, and the likes. If there is a piece of fiction, it does not stay there for long. This is because, I realize, fiction is the first thing I consume when I make my pick of what to read before I go to sleep. It doesn’t mean that, at some point, I did not intend, or even started, reading most of the other, more serious books; but that it seems that books of serious nature put me to sleep a little too fast.
In contrary, fiction, especially pulp fiction of the type a friend of mine likes to call “CIA comics,” keeps me engaged for a little longer, allowing me to phase out of the day’s events onto whatever dreams my restless creative mind has in store for me for that night.
Don’t get me wrong – I really have the full intention of, one day, finishing those books, but turns out that it is unlikely to happen just before bed time.
Learned from: the mound of books by my bed.