It's begun again. The anxiety. The fear that you can't keep up. That no matter how many hours are in a day, it's just never going to be enough. I could be talking about life- sure- but what I am specifically speaking of is that I recently renewed my print subscription to the New Yorker.
I had been getting the issues delivered to my old-school Kindle. Couldn't be more convenient. And good for the environment. Every week a mostly text-based version of the current issue, showed up on my Kindle's home screen. Great!
But... if I'm reading a book on the Kindle, I may not regularly visit the home screen- and weeks go by and I haven't even clicked on the New Yorker- which auto-archives the back issues as the new ones come in. Again, so super-easy and space-saving. But however easy and convenient and green it was- I wasn't reading it, and I missed it (even though, yes- it was right there for me at all times, just waiting for me to click).
A good offer came my way, and so I dove back into the print version! The first issue came- the smell, the tactile feel of the pages, even the old formatting were like coming home. As I thumbed my way through the familiar pages, the dread began. Was today the day I would go to the mailbox and I find the next issue, when I had but begun to make a dent in this issue? Would it be tomorrow? And then another? How long before the pile begins- mocking me that haven't even made my way through "Talk of the Town" yet- from a month ago. "Town's not talkin' about that anymore," the pile snickers (and maybe spits some tobacco into an imaginary spittoon). The pile gets moved, reshuffled- organized by date, by articles within I wanted to read. Eventually the pile gets recycled, passed on to friend- with the self-encouraging thought that I'll read those articles on the Internet- more broken promises.
I should mention at this point that I'm only two issues into this current fling. Things are going okay. I haven't started the second issue- but I've got a a few days before the next one comes. So we're in a good place. I've pratically read the first issue cover to cover...ish. Honeymoon's not over yet. The second issue hasn't yet given me the glare of the mistress on Valentine's Day. But I know what a fickle friend this publication can be. And much like the ocean- you don't want to turn your back on it.
I can't decide if the moniker The New Yorker is fitting, or an contradiction in terms. Sure, making your though the grid-like, tall columns takes a lot commitment and energy. But in a place where expedience is prized- these issues force you to slow down and languish.
So it's another New York(er) romance. Sure there will be issues, the trick is to not let those issues pile up.