As you can probably tell, I haven’t felt much like reading lately. It’s a combination of things.

I often don’t feel like reading after I’ve finished a really great book, like Mélusine and The Virtu. The kind of book that gives me that bounce-on-your-toes, suppressed-squeals-bubbling-up-inside feeling. It’s always genre fiction that gives me this feeling; sci-fi and fantasy, mainly, although I may have had the same reaction to Laurie R. King’s The Beekeeper’s Apprentice. It makes me want to read more of the same, but usually there isn’t any more of the same, and I’m left unsatisfied and unable to settle down to anything else.

The other reason is that I’ve been worried about my father, who’s had pneumonia for the past few months, persisting through several rounds of treatment. He doesn’t seem all that sick, certainly better than he was at the beginning, but since it’s not clearing up, the doctors have him in isolation at the hospital. When my sister and I went to visit him today, we had to wear masks to enter the room. It was, to put it mildly, somewhat less than reassuring. Everyone thought he’d be released today, but the lung specialist nixed that idea in favour of more tests, which will take at least until Tuesday.

So I haven’t felt in much of a mood to tackle any of the books in my TBR pile.