I’m reading Jo Walton‘s Livejournal, and here’s the thing: I hardly read any more.  I mean, I read things in the bookstore, but generally only from authors I already know I like; the last author I officially got into was Jim Butcher (and whoever they have ghost-writing the “Richard Castle” books, but that hardly counts; those are potato chip books par excellence, plus there are only two of them).

It’s weird, because I used to never go anywhere without a book.  I’d smuggle them in my coat sleeves, if I had to.  These days, not so much.  It’s not just a matter of money, because I rarely even pick things up in the library.  I’m not sure what’s up, except a vague feeling that I just don’t have time to read, which is fairly nonsensical.


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