1) I forget that I’m a writer.
I pick up Harry Potter determined to see how J.K. Rowling weaves the magic she weaves. I decide that I will look at her techniques, the way she gets me involved in the story and how she slides in her humour. Five chapters – that’s all it takes to get me so engrossed that I want to know what happens next (even though I know what happens next) and I don’t look at anything else.
2) I sometimes (often?) imagine meeting my favourite characters and talking to them – and then become woefully depressed when I realise I cannot.
Anne Shirley – I want to meet her, I want her to be my kindred spirit, my bosom friend (even if I come second to Diana Barry). I want to visit Avonlea and walk Birch Path with her. I want to share the joy of the Lake of Shining Waters with her. Why can’t I?
3) I postpone everything.
I can write later. I can work later. I can sleep later. But I have to read NOW!
4) I finish reading and think, will I ever write things as achingly beautiful?
5) The only solution to the problems created by good books is more good books.
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