I finished reading two books today, and I must say, I feel a great sense of accomplishment whenever I finish a book. It’s not like finishing a book is some rare occasion for me — I finish books all the time — but it still gives me great satisfaction, like I’ve really done something with my day to have finished a book.

Weirdly, I also find myself feeling very guilty when I plop down in bed and read during the middle of the day, like I’m some kind of radical or revolutionary, a la John and Yoko with their Bed Peace, just some layabout anarchist who should be working to earn her daily bread, but instead, I’m reading books and wasting time.

But then, when I finish the book, I feel as if I couldn’t have used my time any better. Finishing a book is SOMETHING. No matter how many books I finish, the satisfaction of turning the last page and closing the book will never be diminished. It’s a glorious feeling. A journey completed.

Anyway, I finished two books today, and in my defense, I had blocked off the day as a “vacation day” because I had been called for jury duty. I wasn’t selected to serve, but all that waiting before the selection process meant I could read my book, and then, when I got home and didn’t have any particular projects scheduled for the day, I opened the book back up and finished it. And then I picked up another one that I had been reading off and on, and finished that one too.

Thus, the day was a glorious success.