It’s a strange feeling, one that makes you think that there’s something off, you’re not yourself.
It’s a discomfort, a disconnect, being lost while not really being lost at all.
Just as you can feel a cold coming on, the sniffles, the droopy eyes, the soreness in your throat, I can feel this “reader’s block” coming on: I choose to watch a TV episode, or two, or three, I sit and stare at my bookshelves until my cup of tea goes cold, I go to bed at night without having even read a sentence from my book the entire day.
When I do finally discipline myself, sit down, open a book and begin to read, my mind wanders.
I know it’s happening because of my choices: to sit and watch instead of sitting and reading, and I know it’s there to stay when I pick up and put down three novels in a week because I just couldn’t enjoy them … right book, wrong time!
These moments, days, or weeks, are odd for me, reading is such an essential part of my life, something that I don’t even have to think about doing, and when it’s not there, there’s a space, a large, unfilled, empty space in my day. I always try to fight it at first, I read, reread, read the reread passages over again until I think I’m focusing on the work, until I think I’m absorbed by it, but I’m not, I’m thinking about grocery lists, whether or not I can find that candle that reminds me of weekends at the cottage online, will they ship to Canada? Oh, my tea is cold, time to make another cup. And before I know it, the book is on the couch, the bookmark on the coffee table, and I’m in the kitchen waiting for water to boil, the moment is over, it’s lost, and it’s gone … it was probably never there to begin with.
Photographed are some of the books I keep in my room.
Authors that I constantly return to.
Some that I read when things aren’t going so well, others that I pick up when life becomes a little lonely and I need to sit with some characters for a while.
Even some that I go to during certain seasons, or when I travel.
They are authors that I trust and admire, they are writers, creators, and artists that never cease to amaze me or make me feel incredibly grateful to be alive at the same time as they are living and writing. When I have encountered their work, there was a unique (yet similar) sense that I knew that they would always be a part of my life, that their work would always be present, that they were authors that I would read for the rest of my life.
These are the books and writers that I return to when I am deep into that “reader’s block.” I take a number of books from the stacks in my room, and for a few minutes, hours, or days, I sit down and read them, read a short story, read some of my favourite passages that are underlined, or just flip through them, reminding myself of what it was like to pick up that book for the first time. I may not read anything new, I may not be adding another “read” book by the end of it to my Good Reads account, but just as a cold forces us to slow down and take care of ourselves for a day or two, these moments force me to return to my favourite books, to remind myself of why I love to read, and then to return to other books with the focus, attention, and devotion that they deserve.
Now, time to return to Alice Munro, Joan Didion, Mary Oliver, Patti Smith, and the most recent: Lorrie Moore … It is like returning to a familiar space that hasn’t lost its warmth, its charm, and its brilliance, you breathe a sigh of relief as it is just as you remembered it, if not better, yes, it is definitely better!
Sydney K Erickson 
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