From the time I was in 2nd grade I read every book I could get my hands on. I would rather read than sleep—so often, that is just what I did.
By the time I was in junior high I had a flashlight and a battery charger—before rechargeable batteries were made. I never planned to read all night, but just until I came to a stopping place. If the chapter ended in suspense, I had to go on to the next, and the next…until the end, or until all my batteries were dead.
Despite my good intentions, when I finished one book, I often picked up another and continued reading.The question I am trying to answer is, “what made me open that second book and continue reading hours past my bedtime? Was it because the first book was not satisfying and I wanted to read a good one? Or was it because the one I just finished was so good that I didn’t want it to end?
I persisted to do this on occasion even after I was grown and married.
My first two children were born 17 months apart. I had no time for reading, but the books didn’t understand. They sat there on the shelf calling my name. To shut them up I put them in boxes and carried them to the shed 100 feet or so behind the house.
My children are grown and married now, and I have once again found reading to be habit forming. Now I not only try to figure out why that is, but also how I can instill that same desire into the readers of my own stories. Instead of finding the answer, I again find myself staying up way into the night, not reading, but writing, then guiltily sneaking into bed next to my husband just before the soft light of dawn seeps in around the bedroom curtains.I write for the love of writing, just as I read for the love of reading. Both are addicting. Maybe I have found the answer to my question after all—I love to write because I love to read, and I love to read—Because I am a writer.