Years ago, if you were to ask me what I was reading at the moment, I would tell you one specific book:
No, not because I’m an adherent to the lyric “The B-I-B-L-E, yes that’s the book for me!” Instead, I’d say it was laziness. Or ego. Or maybe a bit both of both. For whatever reason, although I owned scores of books, I only merely casually perused them and particularly used them for decor. Furthermore, my ego persuaded me that my mind was enough.
Over the years, social media gave me more access to immediate articles on subjects that interested me. I usually went to Twitter, and still do, since most articles shared on Facebook seem to be less than scholarly, 9 out of 10 times. And so I thought that would suffice.
Yet it didn’t.
Soon, I found myself “hacking my education”, and even then, articles shared via social media weren’t enough. So I turned to podcasts.
And then finally, books.
Recently I heard Pete Scazzero say that our thirties are spent working on the inner-self (Jon Acuff mentioned something similar in a book entitled Start, in which he mentions your thirties are meant for editing, where you “eliminate old habits that wrecked you in your 20s and concentrated on doing more of the things you love and less of the things you hate”, p. 112).
So here I am. Reading more. Editing my life. Working on my inner-self. Consuming more words. Tickling my brain, as someone once said.
One coworker asked earlier this year, seeing a pile of new books on my desk, “How many books are you reading right now???”
I’ll tell you that tomorrow, but for now, what book will you pick up next?