You may be wondering what a woman of my age (viz, no longer in the first flush of youth) can have to learn about reading. The answer is, apparently, plenty.
You see, last year, I discovered, about half-way through the year, that I wasn’t reading much. Books, that is. I was reading things on the internet – and no, not just status updates and captions on cat pictures. In the course of a couple of quasi-scientific studies I conducted on myself during the year, I found that most of the time I spent on the internet was reading proper article-type things – serious newsy ones and amusing ones and a lot to do with the craft and business of writing.
The internet has, in effect, become my newspaper, my professional journal and my very own comedy channel.
And that’s all well and good (although, as I said in the previous post, the time spent on that needs to be controlled).
But I wasn’t reading many novels.
This, I hardly need to say, is not good. I am a novelist. For a novelist not to read stories is like an artist eschewing galleries, or a musician deciding to wear earplugs 24/7. It’s as necessary for a writer to read as it is for some who likes living to breathe. And it has never been a problem before.
But I wasn’t doing it.