So on Saturday I started reading a book I picked up at random from a library shelf and before I had even finished the book I'd gone back to the library to get two more of that author's books. Then I proceeded to read until 2:30 that night so I could finish the second book of the day.
I fully and freely admit I am pathetic and have no social life to speak of.
I justify these actions in two ways.
The first justification is that in every author's blog I've read, in every seminary I've attended as a reader of writers, in every bit of advice I've received in regards to being an author, everyone says that in order to write, one needs to read. Often. And in the genre you'd like to write in.
Personally, I like to read in two genres, generally. The biggest and bestest is Young Adult Fantasy and that's what I usually write as well. But then, sometimes I remember I'm a woman with a sex drive and a hyper-active romantic streak and I delve head first into the kind of books I blush about when other people see the covers. (I must take a moment here and clarify: I do not read books that talk about the act of what I consider sacred. If a book begins to get too intimate, I close the book and don't open it again. I'm talking about the kind of romance that begins with a touch of the hand and ends with a lengthy kiss. Call me old fashioned, if you will. At least I don't feel like a dirt bag at the end of a chaste book. Instead, I close it with a contended sigh and go kiss my husband. He doesn't mind.) And with all that being said, I still hide the book covers.
And since, I have written a book in this toe curling genre, I should probably read as many as I can. I'm only doing my duty, really.
My second justification: last night when I lay my tired head on my feather pillow, I smiled the kind of smile that only comes from completing a guilty pleasure.
It was totally worth it.