I read plenty.
But I’ve long come to accept that reading voluminously doesn’t necessarily make me a better reader. A quantity reader, perhaps, who has so little patience for the thought behind the words that I would read articles for class two or three times through just to understand what the conclusive points were.
I think perhaps, reading taste has trained my reading mind in certain ways that fit very well with one style of writing– action! Dialogue! Intrigue!
But books with blocks of theory and introspection require careful reading, which upsets my concentration, and sends it wandering into dreamland.
I never liked exposition much, I suppose.
This stylistic preference isn’t new to anyone who enjoys reading and also has had some kind of English class. But I’ve found myself reading and collecting more and more books– some quite serious tomes on history, philosophy, sociology because I’m an incurable nerd, but while those sit next to my bedside watching over my sleep with stern, urgent miens, I’ve spent most of my time guiltily reading through the torrid romance and action-fantasy ebooks borrowed from the library. That’s not a hundred percent true– I don’t feel guilty at all for reading them; mostly I feel guilty for not giving my unread stack of semi-academic literature equal attention, I suppose.
Even now, I sneak glances at my bedside table and swear not to start a new book until I can move one from my unread pile.
But to be perfectly honest, I’m already browsing the latest additions to the sci-fi murder mystery stuff at the library.
Oh well. Reading is reading is reading!