Recently... okay a few months ago... my mom gave me this book of hers that she wants me to read. It's a self-help book. Something about busy mom's and letting it all go and loving yourself and you get the idea. I still haven't read it.

I've got nothing against self-help books, I don't. I know they can be very helpful. In fact, I'm sure there are lots out there, this book included, that might make me feel better about myself, my life, my parenting, my writing, every aspect of my life.

But here's the thing. When I get the time to sit down and relax, I don't want to read a self-help book. I want to get lost in a story of love and hate and war and power and first kisses and last kisses and relationships and people who are just as or more screwed up than me. I want to lose myself in other people's problems, not my own.

I actually did crack this book last Friday. I read probably the first ten to fifteen pages. Of course, it's not that bad. It's actually pretty entertaining. But reading a self-help book to me is like exercising. I don't want to do it and I whine and complain to myself how I don't want to do it and I'd rather be doing anything else, but when I finally do it, I like it and I'm glad I did it. Unfortunately, it's easier for me to find the motivation to get on the treadmill than it is to open a self-help book.

I don't know if I'll ever finish this book. My mom is coming this week and I either need to force myself to read it or just hand it back with a mumbled, "yeah, it was great."

Okay, maybe I need the book after all.