Like many writers, I love to read.
Books are my drug of choice. I especially love romances–comedy, suspense, paranormal if I have to pin down sub genres. I also love fantasy, urban fantasy and science-fiction, though I’m more particular about which of those I read. But good luck getting me to read a mystery or any other genre. Sorry, but I’m a little discriminating.
However, if you were to look at my book collection, you would frown and say, “that’s all you own?” You see, my book collection is pitifully small compared to my so-called appetite. And my appetite is large. Give me a stack of books I’ve never read, and I’ll have then read by next week. So I try to own books I know I’ll re-read a million times.
I love to read, but I don’t buy books.
Why not? Simply put, I read too fast. Some people love to read but have no time for it. Others love to read but read too slowly. Not me. I’m a quick reader. Give me a 350 page book, and I’ll have it read in 5 hours. Easy.
Case in point: in the past twenty-eight hours, I have read two novels, each 360 pages a piece. And I only have one left.
It’s true what they say. If you love to do something, you’ll make time to do it. And God has blessed me with all the time I could ever want to pursue my love for reading. If I had all the money in the world, I’d do nothing but read. Assuming I had enough books to keep me satisfied. But when you’re addicted to reading, there are never enough books.
Do you understand now?
Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t understand why being addicted to reading is a bad thing. And maybe it isn’t a bad thing. But let me tell you, when you go to the bookstore, spend $60 on twelve books (that would be nice. 12 books would probably cost more like $120) and then read them all in a week and a half–but then can’t go back to the book store for another three weeks because that’s when your next paycheck comes in, that hurts.
You want to know what hurts more? Going back to the bookstore and realizing there’s nothing to read. You’ve already read everything the books store has to offer. All the good stuff, at least.
And in the mean time, the book withdraw is no picnic, there are no clean dishes left in the house, and the trash stinks to high heaven. You’re walking on dirty laundry and not carpet, and what clean laundry you have has replaced the blankets on your bed. All of which has happened because you did nothing but read for five days straight.
If this doesn’t bother you, then maybe reading isn’t a problem for you.
Or maybe you just don’t give a darn about having a clean house.
Me? I go back and forth between the desire to live in a non-stinky house and to live between the pages of the next novel.
I know, I know. I’m a poor, pitiful baby. Be quiet. I’m trying to read.