for the life of me, i cannot get past the first couple of pages of murakami’s “kafka by the shore”.
it’s a little embarrassing to admit because i’m something of a pretentious snob, choosing my reading material from “greatest of” lists and picking more well-known authors so there’d be a familiar name to discuss. oh salman rushdie? yes, i’ve read the booker of bookers. i only made it halfway through because it’s a book that requires stamina and i couldn’t keep up. but i like the half that i read. deep stuff.
what i’m most disappointed in, though, is the fact that i haven’t finished a so-called proper work of fiction (polishing “the hunger games” during a particularly quiet night shift doesn’t count as “proper”) since i let myself be drawn into the careless romance of “norwegian wood”. i thought i’d finally be able to plough through the wall that is “kafka” now that i’ve managed to finish something by murakami.
but it just wasn’t possible.
i’m not sure if anyone else has experienced this kind of readers’ block, the inability to finish a book despite its reputation. despite knowing in theory that it’s a work of art that should be experienced in one’s lifetime. the feeling that maybe the latest issue of cleo would be a better idea. at least there’d be cute guys in it.
anyway, i’m just writing because i don’t want to forget how to write. it’s devastating enough that i’ve forgotten how to read. the pointless music on the radio makes it even more difficult to find something that can stir that old love of writing in me, now buried beneath the practice of neonatal intensive care. nothing for me to really write about. to feel about.
perhaps it’s not as simple as an annoying readers’ block. i really don’t know.