I’d forgotten how much I love to read, the pull of a book left propped open, calling you, waiting for you to return to it. I’ve been in writing mode for a while now, and while writing, I don’t read.
But I think I’m going to change that.
Yesterday, I sat down with George Orwell’s 1984, a book I’ve always meant to read, but always seemed to get shuffled in the to-be-read list. In less than a minute, still in my pajamas, sitting on my couch, I had it on my Kindle. And on my phone.
At one point in the day, I switched from reading on the Kindle to the phone, and it remembered where I was. And trust me, the irony of reading this book on an electronic book reader on a date so far past the imagined one of the title as to be ludicrous did not escape me.
Reading reminded me of many things that inspired me to write in the first place. The idea of creating a world, the idea of saying something and creating your own real estate to do it.
It reminded me what it’s like to melt into a world that isn’t your own.
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