Hello St Marks

30 minutes on public transport without a book is cruel and unusual punishment. I read the ads. I almost read Rebus over a shoulder. Eventually I chewed over my current preoccupation: brain food. Reading is a brain food delivery system. If junk food tastes good but has no enduring value, so too a narrow diet of fantasy fiction (or romance, or crime, or whatever your junk preference). Choose from the healthy options menu and you'll grow up big and strong. I need to balance my diet of Barbara Kingsolver (more please) and Robin Hobb (only for treats). This metaphor could go far. So if you don't read, are you starving your intellect? I'm stretching a metaphor but there may be a chicken nugget of truth in it.

One more week to go. Things I have done in the past 3 weeks which I wouldn't otherwise have done: Written a blog. I like it. Gone for a walk, just for the hell of it. I like this too. Painted a large abstract canvas with the boys in the garden. It's called 'Flower of Truth', named by G. I don't know what it means, either. Discovered several new TV shows on Foxtel: 'Breaking Bad', and something about a psychiatrist. Online shopping. A lot of washing. Stupid amounts of Work. Things I have not done in the past 3 weeks: My tax return. Read other blogs (where do they all live?). Gone to the dentist. In the past 3 weeks Work simply expanded to fill the space left vacant by reading, especially after the boys' bedtime. Every night the dilemma, what to do, what to do? Bedtime is horrible without a book, so I'll prop myself on the sofa with a movie and my laptop and get a whole lot of Work done. After 10.30 I'll watch any old bit of Lifestyle Channel tat,

I am becoming less interesting, this is certain. My internal dialogue is boring even me. Coming out of my mouth is chat about kids, work, property, schools, gardening, family news and gossip plus old views, established opinions and well-rehearsed positions. In the absence of new inputs I'm stalling. I think if this went on too long I'd stop altogether. How does the brain stay fluid if you don't read?

I was the library lady today, stacking books at G's school. I like to do it when I can, and J seems to enjoy it, or enjoy the box of dinosaurs under the counter. I drifted over to the FAN shelves - did you know that primary school libraries devote an entire wall to Fantasy? Is this a Harry Potter-inspired recent phenomenon? At G's school the fiction department has Wonderland (picture books), Middle (chapter books) and Fantasy, each of about equal heft. I think that's remarkable. Anyway, I made sure to sort the FAN books so I could browse the shelves and borrow a couple of books for myself, thinking the last couple of Sonya Hartnett books looked good... old habits die hard. I note for the record that I have received 4 lovely magazines in the mail this past fortnight, which remain in their shiny plastic bags, quietly tormenting me.

Another highly productive weekend. I'm exhausted. There are two big piles of books in my house; one in the living room (books in transit) and one by the bed. To occupy the empty (book-free) hours while the boys sleep, I'm sorting out the living room pile today. It's illuminating. Waiting to be read: Barbara Kingsolver, 'Animal, Vegetable, Miracle' (I didn't finish it before the new world order commenced; I've been describing it to everyone I know based on the half I have read, probably wildly innacurately.) Celia Lashlie, 'He'll be OK' (About raising boys into good men; barely skimmed the first chapter so far and I'm a bit scared of it. Parenting books are usually exhausting and demoralising.) Philip Reeve, 'Mortal Engines' and 'Predator's Gold' (Young adult fantasy about vast mechanised cities which float above the ground and prey on each other for raw materials; a really great idea I think.) Sherri S Tepper, 'Shad

Watching Showtime this evening (I don't read anymore, you know), seeing Bob Carr talking about the TV mini series 'John Adams', about the US president and the war for independence. Bob's erudition and comprehensive knowledge, seemless and passionately expressed - that's the product of great reading, surely? Reading that absorbs the reader, then wedges in the brain as a ready resource. I'm reminded of why I've given up reading this month: because I mostly read junk that pours through me like water through a sieve, leaving nothing behind. Mostly just the flavour of the book remains; I can't recall the author, the character's names, the ending. This is especially true of all the fantasy I've been reading the past year or so - delicious, absorbing, but leaving nothing behind. I've been thinking this week about the point of reading. If I read and love the reading but retain almost nothing, then was it valuable? Or is it just giving time away?

I have somehow survived an entire long weekend without reading. Not surprisingly, it has been an extraordinarily productive 3 days. The hardest times are breakfast and bedtime. Breakfast is such a civilised time to read; it's a slow wake-up, a long pause between sleep and the day kicking off. Perfect for the weekend supplements, for fluffy articles on social trends and voyeuristic case studies, book reviews and movies; Good Weekend, Sydney's Child, Organic Gardener, the Monthly, InsideOut. Breakfast is strictly for glossy stock. On Saturday I like to read Spectrum and rip out reviews and ads for things I'd like to think we'll do. Every now and them I'll clip an article and stick it into a giant blank book I've had for a decade or more; when I go back to it now the articles track a predictable life story like surfing a beige middle-class zeitgeist; travel, pregnancy, parenting, property, more parenting.

A while ago I was talking to Russ who said he hadn't read a book for 6 months because his wife banned him from reading. She said he was completely useless when he had his head in a book. This is a busy man, looking after a couple of kids and painting houses around parenting, so book reading was time invested for no return. He seemed comfortably resigned to the ban. One of the blokes I work with read his first book this year last month, on holidays. He says he'd like to read more, but doesn't have time so reading is a strictly holiday-time experience. P made a vow to read one book a month this year, and has clocked 3 books so far, so the average isn't looking good. I've chatted to a half dozen people recently about reading, and there's a common theme: most people can't imagine where the time comes from to read, and I can't imagine how you can brush your teeth without a book in one hand.

I didn't realise what powerful forces of habit and desire were at work when I opted to give up reading for the month. Today I've stopped short in the act of picking up a book, browsing the pile of magazines heaped on the kitchen table, sliding my favourite SMH supplement out of the office paper pile... at every turn I'm reaching for some words. The house is a minefield due for a sweep. There are piles of books in the lounge room (current reading, books just arrived, and books waiting to go back to various lenders), and a stack of magazines and newspapers on the kitchen table, all shiny and alluring. A dozen or so books beside the bed (current, just read, waiting), more magazines beside the sofa (recently read, can't bear to throw away). I keep drifting toward these lovely piles of words. Tomorrow they're all off to the studio to rest out of sight for the month. Like a chocoholic on Weight Watchers, I know it's best to put distraction out of reach.

I woke up with a stomachache on this first day of abstinence. J woke at 5.30am, still a bit jetlagged, so I settled him on the sofa and reached for a... oh dear. No book, empty hands, what to do? Cue stomach pains. I think my body knows this is a bad idea, missing a critical input already. It's mad, but I feel bereft. Over breakfast I decided that catalogues are not banned, and read Big W. To be clear about the rules: Books (ficton or non-fiction), magazines, newspapers and the shiny wekend supplements are all banned. Catalogues, mail and documents I have to read for work are allowed. The stack of magazines I should read for work, but usually don't look at, are safely ignorable for another month. All this denial is supposed to open the door to all the other things I talk about doing but don't. Blogging (so far so good). Working out how to edit video. Paying bills. Sorting out my super. Toilet training (J, not me, I'm fine).

I read a lot. The usual ways: in bed, over breakfast, on the sofa in front of the TV, Saturday mornings with a cup of tea. The unusual ways: in traffic, brushing my teeth, while cooking, a book propped up on the sil as I do the dishes. On the toilet, of course. And the rest, which I'm not proud of: while driving, while ignoring my kids. I've found taking holidays usually sprouts one or two bold ideas, and this past holiday - with the kids to New Zealand - was as usual. I was reading - of course I was reading - Barbara Kingsolver's 'Animal, Vegetable, Miracle', about her family's year of seasonal eating. Clever concept, topical, passionately expressed. The notion of denial was immediately appealing. I've been feeling bloated with Western excess, full up and sick with it. And I was reading Barbara as the kids played Lego or fell about each other in a sequence of family motels; reading Barbara rather than romping with my boys in New Zealand. Reading has a mor