I can’t believe I’m actually concerned that people think I might actually have taken this long to read a book. It’s utterly unimportant, and I doubt anyone cares anyway, but it looks from Goodreads that Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry took me an inordinately long amount of time to read. Over a week. It actually didn’t take me longer than normal, but I’m oddly concerned people might wonder.
I have a certain reputation to uphold, even though that reputation is pointless and no one really cares anyway.
Not that Lonesome Dove didn’t take a good amount of time. It’s big, 945 pages. I put down on Goodreads that I started reading it 1/29. However, I didn’t actually start it until 1/31 (spent the interrim looking over a manuscript for a writer friend). Even with that, I sometimes only got an hour or two of reading in a day with prepping for the move. That’s not usual. I finished 2/7, or about an actual week, even given the lack of usual reading time.
I’m actually embarassed…and that’s striking me at completely idiotic right now. It’s odd what becomes important to us that really isn’t in any way, shape, or form.