I’ve been keeping track of the number of books I’ve read or listened to every year since 2007. I do this for two reasons: (1) My mom does it, and I’m inherently competitive — though she always beats me; (2) I sometimes forget books that I’ve read, especially those by my dear Georges Simenon, and it’s nice to have a record (also, my mom and I have a rule that you can reread a book ten years after the last time you read it and it still “counts.” So when I accidentally reread Maigret’s Pickpocket earlier this month, I was relieved to find that I last read it in 2008).
My goal is to read 100 books a year. This seems easy enough, given how many days there are in a year. I blew past that in 2019 and 2018, but in 2017 I only made it to 75 (in my defense, I had a baby in August of 2016 and the whole “clown took over the country” thing really distracted me).
Although it is only December 27 (Happy Birthday, BTW, to my mom, whose book list is at least in the 150s this year), I can say with confidence that I’m only getting through one more print book and one more audiobook this year, which only brings me to 98. NINETY-EIGHT.
But as everyone keeps reminding me, 2020 has been the worst year ever in the history of years. So it seems only fitting that this particular goal won’t be met.
Here’s to next year, in which I will write 1,000 short stories, 100 novels, and read 200 books other people wrote.