The Island of Lost Books

Arggh!

I’m forty-five pages into Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Escape on Venus. I’m not that into it, but I read one of his Venus books as a kid and I want to see what I remember, in addition to a few pieces of Venusian linguistics. The story is so-so, the science nonexistant, but I’m a willing participant. I put in about two hours to date. Then, last night, I feel like reading a bit before bed when –

I can’t find it!

Where did my book go to? This is a travesty! My wife was chuckling as I went tearing through the house – is it in this pile? That pile? Downstairs at the writing desk? Is it in my car? My wife’s? Where did I see it last? Did Patch hide it under the sofa? Nowhere is it to be found. More humorous noises from my Better Half, until I silence her with: “Imagine you went to Starbucks and came back with a big grande of coffee. Then, you go to another room for a moment, and when you come back – it’s gone!” If that did indeed happen, heaven help anyone who gets between her and her caffeine.

Anyway, I’ve given up the search. Escape on Venus has fled – or been abducted – to the Island of Lost Books. My life was oddly incomplete last night. I could not go to sleep. I went back to the basement and fished around the On Deck Circle, and managed to draw up some enthusiasm for Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur. True, I read twenty-five pages of that book last night, but when I cracked it at lunchtime, any zeal for it had long fled.

What do I do now? What do I read next?

I think this calls for some drastic action.

I’ve been reading a lot of epic books, big books, lengthy books. Why not try something different? How about a return to short stories?

Okay, my right brain says to the left. The first choice – first meaning it pops into my mind before the left brain can analyze it to bloody death – is Asimov’s The Bicentennial Man. Eleven short stories, last read thirty-plus years ago. Lots of vivid images still in my mind. Why not?

Think I’ll start on it tonight.