Unsolicited Rambling in Late 19th Century Form

I have lately taken up reading novels, which is unfortunate.

I used to think that my preference towards op-eds, journalism, and other nonfictional works was due to my minuscule attention span. This is apparently not the case.

It is because I am the world's slowest reader and am only able to read ten pages or so at a time, because it takes me an entire afternoon to do so. It is my lifespan that is minuscule - at this rate I will finish three whole books before I die, and Moby Dick hasn't got a chance.

Other thoughts:

Everything is fiction, and everything is memoir. There is no writing the least bit stylized which does not have the mark of a writer’s fictitious touch, and everything with a monochrome of emotional validity has within it a historicized memoir. Ivy Donegal is herself a fictionalized character - she does not exist - and thus everything she says or does or thinks is therefore a work of elaborate fiction. However, her words, actions, and thoughts often bear a striking resemblance to those of her flesh and blood creator, who does not ride a unicorn to tea with the Queen, or anything else mildly interesting enough to call her life a work of fiction.

And thus the conundrum of the pseudonymed blog is born.

I, myself, have been reading far too much written by the indomitable Virginia Woolf. Must stop talking this way, post haste.

Also: My therapist (well…one of my therapists…oh dear.) advises me that I read too many depressing things, which end only when the author drowns herself, or shoves her head in an oven, that sort of thing. Any and all recommendations of slightly happier tales are welcome.