Life gets tough sometimes. So much so that we want to disappear.
Some people disappear with naughty things like booze and random dalliances with muscly strangers. Me? I read. I've always thought this was a fantastically wholesome habit. What's better for a hurting spirit than a good 'ole dip in the literary pond? But then I started reading when I should have been doing other things. Like applying for jobs. And working on my writing. And eating proper meals off plates.
I read to get away from the stuff I don't want to deal with. Sometimes that means I'm spending over half a day reading instead of being a productive member of society. And I find myself wondering: is there a point when a book addiction becomes bad for you? Has that point been reached when you try to read and do dishes at the same time? Or when you actually contemplate skipping a shower because hygiene takes up valuable reading time?
My name is Kate Armstrong, and I'm a readaholic.