Monday, August 26, 2013


I confess: I'm addicted to books, to reading.  I'm obsessed.  I can't stop myself from browsing, looking, sampling, purchasing, reading.  Every Sunday the New York Times Book Review brings me a whole new shopping list.  Then I go to the Kindle Store and wham! every other book sounds so interesting, so much like what I want to write, that I have to try a sample at least.  From there to buying with one click is a short road to perdition.   Not to mention the frequent visits to bookstores where my willpower not to buy at least one book or two often fails me.

Books accumulate in my reader.  They pile up on the desk and the bedside table.  I start one and read.  But the other ones beckon; they call my name with tiny voices: read me, read me.  Ok, ok, I say, I will.  And I start another one.  Not a good habit by any means.  

In this way I have a book I read in bed, before falling asleep.  I have a book (or two) I read as a writer: take notes, jot down ideas for my own writing.  And there is a book (or more) I read for entertainment, for the sheer pleasure of reading.  

At the present I'm reading "Film Night" as entertainment, having left "The Obituary Writer" halfway read and waiting.  

"Blue Plate Special" I'm reading and taking notes for my own essay, having just finished "Farther Away." 

At my bedside I just finished "There Will Be Apricots" and reading "The Faraway Nearby."

What are you reading?


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