A: Nothing. I have resolved to fret less.
Q: Give me a break.
A: That's not a question.
A: Okay. The economy, my children's economic future, the wars, my lack of closet space, the way dust and dirt accumulates silently yet openly in my house, aging, food insecurity all over the world, the historian's health and happiness, whether I am in fact a good person.
A: No kidding.
Q: Maybe you should work on something else. Like, give stuff up. Like shopping, potato chips, and general laziness?
A: This isn't helping.
Q: Fine. Moving on: How can you tell if you're reading for pleasure?
A: If the book makes me feel as though it is my very, very best friend, as though, when I wake up, I want to cradle it in my arms; if I want to press a copy of it into the hands of everyone I know; or perhaps if I want to sleep with the book under my pillow--all these are signs that I am reading for pleasure.
Conversely, if the book emits a force field that makes it impossible to read more than a page and a half without making me (a) put it down, (b) fall asleep, or (c) fling it across the room, then I am not reading for pleasure, and therefore shall seek another book to read. Preferably a pleasurable book.
Q: In the phrase "write lots," how much is "lots"?
A: Quite a bit. A considerable quantity. With significant frequency. Voluminously. At a marked rate.
Q: Will 2009 be a good year?
A: Que sera, sera.