I confess. I've loved to read ever since I was a small child. I was a voracious reader growing up. I could not wait to get that next Nancy Drew mystery, even though I had to read it under my covers at night because the suspense was sometimes scary. Oh, I was so worried for Nancy's safety. And before that, I read the entire series of the Thornton Burgess animal series with Reddy Fox, Grandfather Frog and so many more. I walked however many miles it was to get to the library each week during summer vacation so I could bury myself in the next book. During college, I actually got yelled at by a professor for reading a book in his class that had nothing to do with that particular class. I'm sure the book was a novel or biography of some sort.
As an adult, I've tended to read a lot of magazines (which can be read quickly or even put down and picked up again at any time) and a variety of books but not really novels or non-fiction stories. And here's why: I think I might be an addict. Oh, I can read a photography book or a book about living your best life with no problem. I don't feel the need to read the entire book in one sitting. But give me a good novel or fascinating non-fiction story, and I can't put that book down. So for the last three nights, I haven't gotten to sleep until after midnight because I'm absorbed in a book titled The Help by Kathryn Stockett.
And that's why I typically do not read novels and non-fiction. Because I can't put the darn book down. I shouldn't have been surprised this morning when I saw the bags under my eyes. I knew last night that I should have closed the book at a reasonable hour. After all, the media has been running stories of late discussing how important sleep is to healthy bodies. And yes, I was dragging a bit yesterday because I didn't get a full night's sleep. So did I go to sleep earlier last night? Noooooo, I didn't. Well, there's always tonight.