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Picture a personal home library full of books of all genres, from all types of authors, from different decades and countries, contemporary, modern, classics. Some of the bindings are brand new, some are old and cracking, others are slick, some are hardcovers, some paperback. Now picture the library’s owner who hasn’t read even half of those books.

That owner is me.

Sadly, it’s not because I don’t love to read that I have so many books that I have yet to flip open. It’s just that I’m either writing so much (and all things related to that) or reading other books that I just haven’t got to reading the unread.

I’ve decided to make it my goal to walk into the library, close my eyes, spin around (safely, of course), and point. Upon opening my eyes, I will follow the tip of my finger to the book it most closely points and proceed to read it.

The unsettling part of the goal I just wrote is that I don’t have a time limit. By when do I want to do the finger-pointing ceremony? By when do I want to read that first finger-pointed book? By when do I want to have read all the unread?

Maybe there shouldn’t be a time limit because what would be the fun of that if the pressure is to finish the unread instead of actually enjoying the journey on which they take me?

Yes. Read the unread. That is the goal.

Update (8/10/13): I just found another (unintended) mini-library in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. More of the Unread. So sad, they’ve been there, laying in a coffin, waiting, just waiting to be rescued and have their pages unfurled. Soon, babies, soon. I’m a sad, sad home librarian. Shame spiral begins now.

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