Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Today was the last book club meeting of the year. Since I’m in two different clubs, this means I have no more assigned reading until January. I’m on my own.

So I plan to tackle (not literally) the stack of unfinished books which has doubled as a side table near my couch. They range from a work on how the Cubs won the World Series in 2016, that doesn’t seem so relevant anymore, to short stories by Jeffrey Archer, a novel by Ann Patchet, and a non-fiction account of how the current President became President by Naomi Klein. Each book is half-read, but likely I’ll have to start at the beginning again.

Then there is the stack of magazines that isn’t as tall as a table, but close. It is as eclectic as the books with poetry periodicals resting with cooking mags and NY Times Sunday inserts. There are also back issues of Sojourner and Rain Taxi.

It’s a good thing the sun sets early, and I can spend the long winter evenings with my nose in good reading material. This isn’t to say that book club books aren’t good reading material. But there’s something freeing about reading whatever I want whenever I want, rather than reading to a deadline.