You know what I'm good at? Letting a book choose me.
If I don't pick up something right after finishing another book, then I'll pause for a couple of days. I'll walk by my book shelf, trying to look casual and nonchalant, but really slyly examining titles out of the corner of my eye. I'll lay in bed at night and look past my feet at my books, and wonder which will it be? Do I know the book already? Or will I find a stranger?
In the meanwhile I'll re-read. I'll visit Ramona, usually, and consider the time gap and narrative switch between Beezus and Romona and Romona the Pest. I'll read Runner's World, but notice the flimsy magazine weight in my hand and feel restless for something more substantial, but I can't rush it. Otherwise it won't be right. That's how I ended up reading 68 pages of Gone with the Wind.
So, I'll wait. And as I look behind a stack of books at another stack of books, I'll wonder if this book that finds me will be big enough for me to disappear into it. Or if I'll roll my eyes and hold it far away from my face as I read and spend an hour articulating exactly why I don't like it as James eats his dinner.
And until the book whispers its name into my ear, I will read month-old Glamour magazines on the subway, and go to bed just after Henry Huggins meets Ribsy for the first time and brings him home on the bus.
Which is okay, because Henry gets a ride in a police car, after all.