A couple of years ago, I was home, doing the whole "late-thirties-cleaning-out-old-crap" thing at my mom's house and came across a cache of books from school. Most of them were tossable, but I came across The Great Gatsby and immediately felt guilty. Like many books during high school, I scanned Gatsby more than read. I used some weird speed-reading talents to get by versus truly understanding. And Gatsby, for some reason, was one I felt like I should revisit. Give it the real treatment. Attention.

I took it home, started it and didn't get very far. A few pages in and I was looking at words instead of reading them. Thinking about my day, issues at work, anything but what was on the page. Very odd.

Was it the style? The topic? Something subtler?

I put it aside and picked up another book that I was supposed to have read back then: Catcher in the Rye. I loved it. Back to Gatsby, then.

No dice. Nothing but distraction.

Why?

It took a bit, but I remembered that I never had Salinger assigned to read.

I read a lot. All the time. Lots of magazines. Lots of books. Lots of websites. But why can't I read something I was told to read. Twenty-five years ago. I don't get it.

Here's the good news. Gatsby's copyright lapsed before the Hollywood-driven, perpetual copyright new order. So I now have a (free) copy of Gatsby on my Kindle ready for me to read.

Not because I have to.

Because I want to.

Reading is FUNdamental, after all.