It’s the 11th of January 2026, and without any trouble at all, I caught influenza before the 25th of December; it chose to stay around for approximately three weeks and counting, strain unknown, but it has been a doozer. Charles managed to stay influenza-free, and I managed to compile a list of books while I was convalescing, and “the books we read while ill with the flu” started with Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina”, and Alexandre Dumas ‘ “The Count of Monte Cristo. The latter has me saying, “Crisco, Crisco? Cristo!”
I’m transported back in time with the whole Crisco-Cristo thing. Dumas took me back to Crisco and my mama’s kitchen. Who else had a mama who baked and cooked with Crisco?
What’s my point besides pie crust and Crisco? Reading shouldn’t be what we do when we’re too sick to do anything else, like it’s a consolation prize for being stuck in bed.
Reading for me comes as naturally as morning coffee, but building stacks of books not so much anymore. I remember a young girl, quiet afternoons, a book in hand, and being totally immersed in whatever I was reading. Complete transportation to other worlds, realms and possibilities.
Writing in the margins, marking, or underlining a passage or using sticky notes to write whatever thought pops up? Those cracked spines, folded corners, coffee stains, and margin notes carry the history that a book has been read. Books aren’t meant to be perfect; they’re meant to be used. Annotating gives us our own micro-stories from every book we’ve ever read and have stacked.
Does anyone else annotate their books?