“Reading one book is like eating one potato chip.”
– Diane Duane
– Diane Duane
Another creative writing course is in progress for me from The University Of Toronto and it is forcing me to read. Imagine that. How did I come to this? I am reading because it is required. Where did this passion of mine go and how did it become vanquished so thoroughly? I used to always be reading something. My books languish beside the bed, on shelves and are sometimes pulled for a plane trip and sometimes not. Netflix and other temptations have become my ritual that combines well with tired eyes and fatigue. Maybe I am denying myself extra expense with all the upkeep around here. This week a rubber gasket thingie for my washing machine cost over $250 (it is wonderful not to have water on the floor, mind) and that doesn't count the nice man with the tool kit who came to install it. You know what I am talking about. Later, I tell myself. Treats for you later. No longer. I am reformed.
In my course on memoir, we had to write about a book we are currently reading and so with great pleasure I downloaded a story I have had my eye on for months. It is my homework, I said to myself. I am justified. Curling up in my chair with a latte and a pistachio shortbread and reading first thing in the morning has become a part of my routine. Only fifteen minutes, I say. Why do I have to coax myself? What a pleasure. It sets the morning and the day for enjoyment.