I must confess: I stopped reading.
As a person whose vocation is writing books for people to read, I’m ashamed of this fact. I hid the truth from everyone, myself included, for nearly six months. I was busy, I said. Every time I picked up a book, I thought of something I needed to do: a writing deadline to meet, an Instagram post to craft, a friend’s book release to tweet, a presentation to prepare, an author event to attend, emails to reply, novels to blurb, a dog to walk, a husband to feed, a house to clean, a mother/father/brother/ friend to call, trash to take out, weeds to pull, a birthday card to write, a doctor’s appointment to make, leaves to sweep, an interview to give, a bag to pack, a trip to take, and it all required doing right that minute with no time to spare.
