BookshopGirl: Anything I could get my hands on. Harry Potter, of course. Percy Jackson. Anne of Green Gables. Old Nancy Drew books. Newbery Medal winners, like Tuck Everlasting, The Westing Game.

RJ.Reads: And now?

BookshopGirl: Well, I read upcoming and new releases in order to recommend them to customers, or if I’m asked to blurb something. I try to keep up with the broader literary conversation, you know? Buzzy books, bestsellers, award winners.

RJ.Reads: To be honest, it kind of sounds like you think of reading as a job.

I sit back, stung. He’s right. Reading is still my favorite activity—but somewhere along my journey through adulthood, it’s started to feel more like a task on my to-do list than recreation.

RJ.Reads: Hey, sorry. There’s no right or wrong way to read, as long as you’re enjoying it.

BookshopGirl: No, it’s fine. That’s my point—since it IS my job, maybe that’s taken some of the joy away? I’m reading books I think I should read, not necessarily what I want to read.

RJ.Reads: Like forcing yourself to eat your vegetables because you know you need the vitamins and fiber.

BookshopGirl: Ugh. Am I the reader equivalent of the person at restaurants who orders a salad with dressing on the side, says no to the bread basket, and skips dessert? No one likes that person.

And I don’t want RJ to think of me as that person. Uptight; rigid. I’ve been called that before.

RJ.Reads: Not at all. I’m saying that any balanced diet should include desert.

RJ.Reads: *DESSERT. (Sigh. Why doesn’t this damn website have an edit feature??)

BookshopGirl: I knew what you meant ☺. And I see your point.

I’m remembering the rugelach Georgia brought. The sugar crystallizing on my tongue, the sensation of comfort as it settled in my stomach.

When’s the last time I felt that way about a book? Not in years.

BookshopGirl: So do you have a rec for me? Something…well, fun?

No response. The minutes tick by, and I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel.

Which is silly. I’m sure RJ has plenty of other things to do.

After ten minutes, I head home, heat up a microwave dinner, and crack open a sparkling water. I eat my sad little meal while reading an ARC that arrived earlier today, but it’s not grabbing me, so I set it down and get ready for bed.

As I’m about to turn off the light, my phone chimes.