Conventional wisdom says that as soon as you publish one book you should write the next. The point of this advice is understandable: don’t obsess about who’s buying your work, don’t rest on your laurels, build your backlog, be professional and proliferative. To tell you the truth, though, the idea of diving into another novel right now makes me want to cry. I’m exhausted. I imagine it’s like being in a delivery room after a natural childbirth while the goo is still being sucked from the nose of your newborn and before the endorphins have kicked in, hearing your husband say, “Let’s have another one. Or two. Or ten.” People have been murdered for less.
I don’t really want to commit a capital crime, so I’ve decided to ignore conventional wisdom for a while and shut off the stories in my head to go back to something I used to love: reading. For pleasure. Switching off the computer and all of the lights and curling up to spend half the night turning the pages to find out what happens or just to be wrapped in the atmosphere of the words. Continue reading “Being Merely a Reader”