You know how there are some people in the world who seem to love food more than everyone else? We all love food, but some people’s love of food doesn’t discriminate. They love street vendors and fine dining. They love every kind of ethnic cuisine. They love both sweet and savory dishes. When they eat, their faces light up with a bliss that says it doesn’t matter to them how much cholesterol there is or whether it’ll go straight to their thighs. To them, it’s worth it.
I’m kind of like that, except with books. There are some genres that I read less often than others, but not because I’m discriminating against them. It’s because I only have one set of eyes and so much time in my life.
I also love talking about books and writing. I could talk for hours about it. I have talked for hours about it in various writers groups. I’ve attended many writers group meetings in which I hadn’t submitted a manuscript, but had read all of the submissions for the pleasure of talking about them in the meeting.
Finally, I haven’t read as much as I’ve wanted to in my life. Sometimes it was about time, but it was mostly about guilt. I didn’t feel entitled to all of the pleasure that could be found in reading. Within the past couple of years, I have claimed my entitlement to read and to talk about it.