Monday, August 29, 2011


I’m addicted to reading, which should be no surprise as I’m a writer. I can’t remember ever not loving reading. My mother encouraged me, early on, buying me armfuls of books for Christmas. She allowed me to read when we went out to dinner (during dinner, at the restaurant table). She was and continues to be an avid reader herself. Like me, she’s got bookshelves of novels she plans on reading soon and never leaves the house without at least one book she’s reading (two if she’s almost done with the first). As she says, you never know when you’ll be stuck in a line and that book will come in handy.

She saved many of my childhood books and has given them to me to share with my boys. I’ve got boxes of books in closets, books upon books on shelves in various rooms. We live in a house filled with books, and my husband groans when I return from yard sales with – you guessed it – more books for me and the kids. But at such a bargain, how can I resist?

Can you be a writer and not love reading? 

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