This is very weird. I've been retired for seven weeks now and I've virtually stopped reading and writing (I have never done much arithmetic). My journal lies dormant, without a word written so far on early perspectives in retirement. You'd think my examinations on life would increase rather than drop with a thud. You can see The Book Thief still resting comfortably on my bookshelf. I haven't cracked its pages since the flight home from NYC in March. It's not that I've lost interest in the plight of little Liesel. In the past, when I would lose interest in a book I would simply stop reading it and start another on my list, but I have no desire to do that either. Has my literary life suffered a shock?

Much of my reading and journal writing was done 35,000 feet in the air while strapped to an airplane, or in lonely hotel rooms in evenings on the road in my working days. I don't fly every week now, and I'm busy most evenings with church work or umpiring and then catching an occasional tivo of Judge Judy with Cristie before we call it a night. I do read the newspaper each morning and I'm trying to keep up with my news magazines but even that has been a challenge of late. I'm thinking this is temporary and eventually I'll return to my world of books. Maybe I should join with the ladies in Cristie's book club!