I don't think that's a word exactly, but thanks to the glorious German language, I'm pretty sure I can make it a word. I didn't take three years of German for nothing. Well, I still can't do dative case, but a good friend and I did translate Sciescka and Smith's The Sinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales into German for Germanfest. We won first place, a prize of which I am inordinantly proud.
Lauf, lauf, lauf, so schnell wie du kannst! Du kannst mich nich nehmen! Ich bin der Stinkendekäsemann!
The pinnacle of my writing career!
But really. Lately I've been reading, and too often when I finish a book, I feel very little. I'm neither angry nor sad nor joyous. I feel empty. Books should fill a void in your soul. Lately, I've been experiencing the opposite: I invest my time and interest in a book and receive nothing in return. It is the most epic of gallic shrugs, but bookishly done.
Perhaps I'm just burned out. Perhaps I should take a break from blogging and reviewing; it's healthy and normal. I honestly don't know. So if you see less of me, it's that I'm trying to cure that bookish world-weariness that's been dragging me down.