So far in 2024 I’ve completed five books, which (according to Goodreads math) puts me two ahead of schedule toward a goal of forty-five. (Technically, I started Melissa Maerz’s five-star—of course—Alright, Alright, Alright: The Oral History of Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused at the end of December.)

I sometimes read two at a time, pairing a nonfiction paperback or hardcover with an ebook of short stories for easier nighttime reading, and as I figure to finish two more in the next few days my early subtotal will be inflated. A projected eighty-plus for the year? Doubtful with this track record:

2019	Fifty-nine books out of fifty
2020	Fifty-two out of fifty
2021	Fifty-two out of fifty
2022	Thirty out of thirty
2023	Forty-seven out of forty-five

What the fuck was 2022 all about? That’s what commuting via Subaru instead of train will do. I’ve recovered nicely, upping last year’s goal from forty to forty-five halfway through—it’s a challenge, after all—and I’ll likely make a similar adjustment come June. Never backward though. I’m not a monster.

I reserve my formal TBR list for books I already own (Google Keep handles the rest) and therefore have no choice but to read, believing over and over that this discipline will prevent me from buying more downtown or borrowing more from Libby. Playing by the rules, these thirty, plus Chris DeVito’s Coltrane on Coltrane: The John Coltrane Interviews that I’m currently reading, should carry me into fall with nine to spare. Can I wait until then to introduce something else? Fat chance.

Maybe don’t hold your breath over Zhang Ling’s Aftershock—it’s another godforsaken giveaway contest. If I’m not selected I’ll delete it from the queue—you can’t fire me, I quit!—but if I do win a copy I expect an inevitable race through the terrible that accompanies these… ahem… prizes. Shudder.

Additional custom categories are “rereads,” “giveaways,” “book club” and “abandoned.” I always finish books, even awful giveaway burdens, and the need for this last indicates how pointless (Kevin Brockmeier’s microfiction experiment The Ghost Variations) or terrible (Jen Spyra’s short-story collection Big Time) must be for it to inspire—demand—quitting. Formats with multiple beginnings and endings, at least, offer several escape routes.

The Beatles Anthology, though, is something I won’t get to for some time—it’s the one book I own that isn’t included here due not only to its immersive word count but also to the physical strength necessary to make progress. Book it—har! har!—for Reading Challenge 2028.