The worst part about being a writer is there is little time to read. I’m drowning in books, many free, and don’t have time to read more than one a week . . . maybe.
Before I published my first book, I had oodles of time to read. Didn’t want write that day, no problem, I’ll just make myself comfortable in my office chair and read away. Now, it seems there’s never time to pick up a book for more than a few seconds. Deadlines loom – write this, edit that. Children need attention – who knew? And Advance Review Copies clog up your mailbox and e-mail inbox. The titles all look so intriguing, and many are from authors and friends you’ve known for years. And you want to get to them, but next thing you know it’s ten o’clock, your husband would like you to remember his name, and another day goes by without reading.
My thirteen year old self who haunted libraries and spent much of her allowance on books would have loved to have this problem. My middle-aged self, not so much.