My shelves are teeming with unread books; they always are. I have a (carefully crafted) to-be-read list which lives in one of my journals, which I tick off with glee upon finishing a book, despite loving, hating, or tolerating said works. I prefer a reading-rhythm. My reading-rhythm. I catalogue the books I will eventually read into an order – I do, and have always done this, to try and extract the best experiences from books.
For example, I cannot read three crime-fiction books in a row. I get bored, and my mind glosses over chapters and I long for something other than scenes in a chilly morgue with hellbent yet brooding detectives (why always with the brooding detective trope?!). So, I might read a “classic”, then some Young Adult, then a thriller, then a book of short stories, then contemporary fiction etc and etc. It helps me stay interested in the book in hand, and I always look forward to the sharp change in genre.
There are times, though, where I’ll pick up a book on a whim and just *have* to read it. Maybe the synopsis is just too compelling to sentence it to live at the very end of my to-be-read. Or sometimes, I’ll just need something completely different, something fun and adventurous.