Perhaps two years ago, I finally confronted the depressing fact that reading fiction was a distraction. When I'm in the middle of a fiction book, I can't concentrate on academic ones, on the things I really need to do for my job, for teaching, for my dissertation. I drifted out of the habit of reading. I still bought and enjoyed the series and authors I follow most closely, but little else. In the past two years, I've read more on airplanes and when travelling than when at home. It's a sad state of affairs for someone for whom this used to be a primary hobby.
On the bright side, this tactic largely seems to have worked. It made reading for my dissertation slightly more chore-like, but it did reduce that category of distractions at least, not that I wasn't quite capable of finding other distractions to replace them. It also doesn't help that C. likes playing background music. I know, I know, he's always willing to turn it off so that I can read, but once there's music, and someone else has turned it on, it's easier to allow it to keep going.
Today, it rained all day. I came home with a backpack full of books and wrote up a draft of my lecture for tomorrow. There was still some sunlight out. I curled up in the comfy chair with a blanket and read one of the books on the lecture material. The book wasn't overly compelling, but it was interesting. The lull of the rain's falling was calmingly vague background noise. I was warm and comfortable. It was good to read.
I've borrowed Robin McKinley's latest book, Sunshine from aerinah. I can't allow myself to read it until this coming weekend, when academic reading doesn't loom urgently over me, but I'm looking forward to reading an author whose work I enjoy, in a comfy chair, with quiet all around me.