It used to be that I'd finish a book, add the title to a list I kept online, and write some sort of review. I felt that there were good reasons to do these things. Finishing books is wonderful. Listing books I've read helps me remember. And reviewing books is fun and maybe of some use.

Then I stopped doing all that.

Some of it was just ebb and flow. Back then I was still in a teaching job, the misery of which seeped into every part of my life. I decided to quit that job though I had no plan for what was next. There was a period of some unknowing.

That unknowing was bearable. The joy of quitting my job crowded out the anxiety of the unknowing. That and I found more time and energy for writing.

I considered writing as a job to replace teaching. To try that out, I wrote everything in my life, including what books I finished, to see if I could build an audience.

Turns out that writing for a living is a real work. I knew that, but trying showed me what I didn't know. I might have gone on with that effort, but a good job came along and I took it. Then a great job came along and I pretty much stopped writing and reading.

Though I'm nearly two years in, I still feel new to the job and put into it most of the energy I used to reserve for writing and reading. I've been waiting for that point at which I can come back into balance. Maybe soon? Maybe now?

Yesterday I wrote and posted a piece. Last night, I wrote a note for another. And there's this about finishing a book, coming out of one thing, perhaps returning to another, and alwasy being in the middle of all these things.

I finished John Green's The Anthropocene Reviewed and liked it. Now I've finished this and I like that too.