Reading is a lot like writing for me, it happens in spurts depending on the subject and my mood. Some books can be read in a matter of days, others take months, no matter the number of pages. And now with a family, a job, travel, March Madness, and a new fishing season starting, it's a wonder any reading or writing gets done at all.In Robert Sullivan's book "Cross Country..." (a book I have stretched out over four months), he recalls one of his transcontinental trips referring to it as his Worst Cross-Country Trip Ever, a trip he doesn't care to remember but can't seem to forget. This of course makes me think of a few unpleasant memories of my own. You know, the kind of embarrassing nuggets you keep locked away in the back of your mind but come screaming back in vivid color at inconvenient times triggered by who knows what, and you find yourself looking for a dark place so you can't be seen closing your eyes, plugging your ears, and screaming, "La-la-la!" at the top of your lungs until the moment has passed. Yikes! Why does the brain have to be so cruel?
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