I love to read. I could read before I started school. I buy books like a junkie. I know perfectly well I’ll never catch up with my To Be Read shelves, and I buy more books anyway. There was a time when I read several a week. That was before I had a full time job with a long commute. Before I was writing seriously. These days by the time I get into bed with a book, I’m already half asleep.
In early February we had a Weather Day. Not the kind we’re used to here on the Texas Coast (Hurricane Ike springs to mind), but sleet, a little snow here and there, and ice on the freeways. Just another day in, say, Chicago, but no one in the Houston area knows how to drive on icy roads. I certainly don’t–I was born in Wisconsin, but I learned to drive in South Florida, and I haven’t lived north of Interstate 10 since. So I called in afraid-to-drive and had an unexpected Friday off.
And I spent most of it reading. I sat down on the couch with a thick mystery novel (Sue Grafton’s U Is For Undertow) and read the whole thing. My Weather Day turned into the most relaxing day off I’d had in ages. No errands, no chores, no waiting for a repairman or a delivery, just a whole day with a book.
Many years ago, I read a book called Where Were You Last Pluterday?, one of those literary European science fiction novels translated and published by DAW Books, back when all their covers were yellow and numbered. I remember nothing at all about the plot, just the premise: the elite of society had access to an extra day of the week, Pluterday. If I could find just a few Pluter-hours here and there, I would spend them reading.
