I finished precisely one book on my summer reading list: Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood. It wasn’t the best book I’ve ever read, and it was not Hazelwood’s strongest, either, but I did have a lovely time reading it. I read a lot of other books this summer, too…just none from the list I set forth for myself.
There are a few avenues in which it is becomming clear to me that I am setting goals that bite off more than I can chew right now. I think goals should be a little challenging, they should take a little work beyond the ordinary, and it is good to reach a little beyond what you think you can do. There is always room to go higher, to push harder and farther, and setting goals a little beyond one’s reach is a great way to achieve that.
But there is a moment, too, when it is important to admit defeat.
I’m not admitting defeat on those books; I will read them at some point. I can see most of them from where I currently sit—they are on by bookshelf and dresser, waititing for me like they (most of them, anyway), have been for the last few years. I will read the Cather in the Rye, I will finish Dream Work, I will make my way through more Jane Austen.
But so much of my energy this summer went to other things. That’s okay, that is the way it needed to be. I faced a lot of challenges at work, I spent a lot of time with my family, I attended weddings, I travelled with my sister, I fell apart and put myself back together.
This summer, I faced a truth: I am busy. I have a lot going on, I have a lot of things I want to be doing on top of that, and I simply don’t have time for it all. I read a fair amount this summer, but the books I trended towards were not literary, academic, or dense. They were light, fun, easy. They felt like a treat for my brain rather than another achievement I needed to hit.
It would be so easy to frame all this as “I failed”. I wrote out a list, a list of books I genuinely want to read, and then I barely read any of them. Pass or fail, I certainly didn’t pass.
But I don’t think this situation needs that dichotomy. I am busy, I had other things fill my time, yet I still read. I didn’t read the things I wanted to read, or, perhaps, I didn’t read the things I wanted to want to read. Because I did end up reading things that I wanted to, books that caught my attention; they just happened to be quicker reads and lighthearted books that captivated me but didn’t take much thought.
My 2025 summer reading list goes to a watery grave, but those books will disperse to my future readings lists. They will pop up again, I’m sure. But I’ve learned that, right now, I still need fun books to comprise most of my lists. I can slip Beowulf amongst more Ali Hazelwood, and J.D. Salinger can follow, Tessa Bailey, perhaps. Obscure novels that catch my eye in little street libraries can sandwich Sense and Sensibility and Emma.
I will make it through all the books in my personal collection, but I will save some of the heavy hitters for down the line when my brain has a little more space.
