My boner manifesto. (And by my boner, I mean my imagination. Obviously.)

Last night I did a radical thing. I walked over to the bookshelf in our “grownup room” and grabbed my favorite novel, Swordspoint by Ellen Kushner. I hadn't opened it in over five years. I sat down on my glider and feathered the pages. I began reading.

My weekly diet of Top Chef and Gossip Girl and the Thursday Night Trifecta of Hilarity don’t exactly answer all my imaginative yearnings. My relationship with entertainment has been dulled by the same old thing.

(Now I’ve tasked myself with injecting spontaneity and romance into my marriage and my various forms of escapism? Awesome.)

But the complaints and excuses are similar. Not enough sleep, not enough time, too much stress. Hard to get a babysitter. Still nursing.

I’ve missed several films I wanted to see. They’re in that limbo between theaters and DVD release, languishing on dollar-theater screens in shoddy strip malls. And no, I’m not going there.

My pile of books-to-read eyeball me from beside my computer desk. They’re judging me. Really, they ask. People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly? (But, I argue, I had to get that Entertainment subscription, Anissa’s cute son was selling them—and it’s not my fault my mom drops People Magazines on every non-porous surface of my house! Plus I need them to poop!)

The complaints and excuses are just as empty. Really, if I wanted to badly enough, I could manage to schedule time to see Inglourious Basterds and Where the Wild Things Are and Bright Star and Zombieland. I could choose to work on my short story instead of clicking around the Internet listlessly or screwing around on Twitter. I could choose to settle down with a book instead of Project Runway.

I think it’s time to recharge and remember how to read, and hopefully in turn, remember how to write. I think it’s time to get my butt over to the movie theater more often. I know it’s time to get the rusty old imagination cranking again.

Of all the silly things, my fictional List of Five really reminded me how much I love losing myself in fiction. I’m not that discriminating. I love being wooed by a gorgeous turn of phrase, but I’m just as excited by a girlish crush or a heartbreaking moment. (I won’t be deleting my season pass of Gossip Girl. Um, for example.)

When it comes to my writing, I just want to enjoy myself—and if I can bring even just one other person along for the ride, I’m happy.

(Give yourself love and understanding, my therapist reminds me. So uh, when I set these goals, however small, for myself, I also try to give myself some wiggle room. Not an out, but an acknowledgement that holy crap we’re on the high speed incline toward Christmas. NEVERTHELESS, I shall from here on vary up my means of entertainment, distraction, and wooby love.)

Starting with re-reading my favorite novel. On paper. In my pants hands.