I love to read.
Not exactly shocking, right? After all, I'm a writer. Most writers love to read. Case closed.
But here's the problem: I almost never find time to read.
Oh, sure, I pick up the newspaper in the morning and plod through local, state, national, and international garbage that makes me angry, resentful, delighted, worried, or just plain sad. I also search online for job postings, so I guess that counts as "reading". Occasionally, I even allow myself the freedom to surf my favorite blogs for insights and/or laughs (check out CraigslistCurmudgeon for some funny tidbits.) And I can't forget to mention that my son and I love to share some of his youth-oriented books during our days and evenings.
But I don't read for fun anymore.
I'm almost ashamed to say that. But it's true.
Case in Point: I have a wonderful book sitting beside me at our dining room table (my writing desk most days), The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier. I want to read it with every fiber of my being. I want to get lost in its pages. I want to know Poitier the man, the actor, the husband, the father, the writer. I want inspiration.
Dammit, I just want to read a couple of sentences before passing out from exhaustion at the end of a long day!
(Phew. That was a lot to unload in a small space.)
Anyway, I'm wondering if any other authors share this dilemma? I find that I write copiously, but read little... and, ideally, I believe there should be a 50-50 balance to help me continue with my literary evolution.
For now, though, I'm hopelessly salivating at the very mention of the Pointier book that was a Mother's Day present and remains untouched. Maybe I'll read it for Father's Day...